Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales
Author
: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.comRating
: This chapter is rated R for direct and implied references to heterosexual sex involving a Ninni, an Elf and a Vala, though not all of them at once. (And no, I won't tell you where the good bits are - you'll just have to read the story if you want to find them. sticks tongue out) The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).Disclaimer
: See the Prologue.Feedback
: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.Archiving
: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.Author's note:
Sorry I made u weight so long. RL was getting me down. But I think I haf a job now maybe, so pretty soon, I cn get the new DVD 'n maybe even some of the way kool action figures. (Guess which one I want most?!!!) Anyhoo, here's another chapter. It's a biggy, so b sher u hav lots of pixie stix 'n skittles to munch on, 'kay?This one goes out 2 my way cool friend Soledad 4 her BIRTHDAY! Hey Soledad: Happy Birthday!!!! I hope u like this one. It has Brimby 'n Meneth 'n sex, 'n Glorfy 'n Erestor 'n Lindir, too. Lotsa nummy Elves 4 u! Enjoy!!!! Love, joy 'n sour skittles 2 u 4 the next yeer! Plus all the hunky Elves u can handle! wink wink giggle giggle WHEEEE!!!!
(Hey Peeps: check out Soledad's AWESOME stories about gorgeous Elves like Elrond and Celeborn and Haldir and hunky Men like Bory and Aragorn, and even the Dwarves. They're rilly, rilly good stories, even tho they don't haf a Ninni in them, with lots of action 'n good characters 'n mysteries 'n stuff. U can find them here on ff.net (ID 173902). Or u can go to her website. There's a link on her ff.net biopage. Big Hint: there's some extra stuff there that can't get put on ff.net! Go look 'n don't forget to review!!!!)
SPEW WARNING for Levade and the other peeps hu hav spit up on their screens 'n keybords.
Chapter 6 - Mysterious Pasts and Strange Bedfellows
Welcome back, my friends! You have been away so long! But then summer is a time of travel and adventure, of course, so I have been patient, knowing that with the shortening of the days, you would return once more to hear further adventures from the tale I have been unfolding before you. Oh yes! There is plenty more to be told, enough to last us all the long, dark nights of winter -- you shall not be disappointed, I assure you. So pass me a bit of your evening's snack and settle down.
You may recall -- if you do, then just sit quietly and be patient and I shall get to the new part soon, and if you do not recall, then sit quietly as well and I shall remind you -- that when last you visited, we learned the secret meaning of Menethôlwen's violet eyes. It is she who has the strongest claim to the Throne of Gondor, stronger even than that of Aragorn, who has grey eyes and is descended of the line of Isildur. (And I'm certain we need not go into exactly how deficient that particular bloodline has proven to be over the years!)
When we ended our story, the brave and lovely Menethôlwen had just declared that she and the other nine Walkers would be known as the Fellowship of the Ring. Well, since that time -- the time in our story, not the time since we ended our story last time you were here -- preparations have been underway for the departure of the Fellowship, which Elrond had declared would be seven days after the Ten were chosen.
Isn't that a somewhat precipitous departure for such a perilous quest, you ask? Well, yes, it was, I suppose. But you must understand that housing all those visiting Men and Dwarves and even the rather uncouth Wood Elves was quite taxing for the household of the Lord of Imladris. Now, hush! I know already what you will say: what of the famed hospitality of the Last Homely House? Well, truth be told, the upset over the revelation that Aragorn was not, in fact, the true Heir to the Throne of Gondor, had resulted in another flare-up of an internecine power struggle that had plagued Imladris since the return of the then-barely-reborn Balrog Slayer, Glorfindel, in the Second Age. Since you obviously have not been privvy to the seamier side of life in Imladris, I shall digress for a moment to explain, as the circumstances may have some bearing on my tale in times to come. And even if they don't, it makes for great gossip, as you shall see.
o o o o o o o o o o
Lindir paused outside the closed door to the Elrond's study and sighed. Erestor and Glorfindel were at it again. And not for the first time, he knew. Stories of their never-ending sniping had reached his ears in the first days after he set foot in Imaldris, known to many, although not to him at that time, as Rivendell.
The Bengal tiger who had padded along at his side after being dismissed by the beast's mistress and Lindir's beloved friend, Menethôlwen, growled quietly. Lindir smiled sadly and patted the magnificent creature on the head.
"Worry not, my friend. They have been worrying this knot since the day the Master of Imladris tied it by refusing to admit he made a mistake. They are both bound to this fate, this one doom, and I fear they shall carry this battle with them beyond even the Western Seas."
He paused to reflect a moment. The huge cat seated himself and began licking one of his massive paws.
"Or perhaps not. After all, I don't suppose Elrond will have need for a Seneschal of Imladris once he is no longer in Imladris."
Cheered immensely by his sudden insight, Lindir settled himself against the wall and began to compose a humorous lay that he would sing to tease the two Elves once they'd all arrived safely in Elvenhome.
Meanwhile, the voices inside the room rose to a volume that would have been audible even to a human in the hallway, had there been any present to hear them. Erestor's sharp tenor was the first to breach the wooden door.
"I alone held the title in the earliest days, so I am the more senior member of the household staff, therefore, I am the true Seneschal of Imaldris. And as a responsible seneschal devoted to my duties, I find this whole business about Estel or Viggogorn or whatever he's called these days being apparently not the heir apparent very distressing. It has completely spoiled all my seating charts for the rest of the feasts, not to mention several themed parties I had planned to keep the Dwarves sufficiently entertained indoors that they'll do no further damage to the gardens with their drunken revels."
Glorfindel replied swiftly, his golden baritone dripping with false sympathy, "How perfectly awful for you: all your carefully made plans gone awry! It is so very unfair of the Valar to disrupt your parties and placecards with such trivial matters as the future of all of Middle-earth."
He snorted before continuing, the saccharine now gone from his tone.
"Well it is, then, that while you've been fussing over party plans, I have been carrying out such vital duties as seeing to the security of the Vile Object that is the reason for this gathering of the Races of Arda. But it is to be expected that the most important tasks should fall to me, isn't it? Elrond's refusal to correct his mistaken entry in the house staff roster cannot disguise the fact I am, in fact, far older than you and thus the more senior member of the household, and so I am by all rights the real seneschal."
Erestor's pitch and voice rose another notch.
"Nay, my body is older than the one you now wear, so it is I who am the more senior."
Glorfindel replied sharply: "I am twice-born, which makes me twice the Elf you are and so I am the more senior!"
Erestor sneered, "Nay, your death and rebirth makes you but half the Elf you were, as your essence has been split across two bodies."
Through clenched teeth, Glorfindel ground out: " I am neither two Elves nor half an Elf, but one and the same Elf, and if I may say so, I am more of an Elf than you will ever be!"
"Says who?"
"Says me!"
"You and who else? Or is it just the both of the one of you talking to yourselves, per usual? Must get very confusing! No wonder you can't understand the heavy responsibilities that go with being Seneschal of Imladris!"
The tiger at the door perked his ears up as Glorfindel let out a low growl.
"Well, since you've been celibate most of your life and are now bound to one who came to you innocent and untouched, I guess there is none who could speak on your behalf, now is there? Thus, the debate goes to me, for there are many, among them the lovely Menêtholwen herself, who will dreamily vouch for just how much of an Elf I am."
Lindir straightened up, judging it to be time for him to intervene. Opening the door and stepping in quickly with the tiger at his heels, he brightly chirped, "Oh there you are! Erestor, kneed melba [my love], Elrond wants to see you about the plans for tonight. The Dwarves were frolicking in his private garden last night, but I assured him you have a plan for stopping that nonsense. And Glorfindel, I heard Menethôlwen was asking after you. Something about the Shards of Narsil, I think."
And because Lindir was a good deal more clever and observant than most of Imladris gave him credit for being, he had known exactly what to say to cause the two elder Elves to immediately forget their fight and get back to their duties. After all, they really were fine old Elves, both of them, devoted to the service of Elrond. It was just that the pesky organizational chart turned their minds now and again. Fortunately, Lindir understood just how to refocus their thoughts and thus draw out their better natures once more.
Content to have restored peace in at least one bit of Arda before noon, Lindir led the tiger out to the garden to enjoy the morning sun and to enjoy the quiet while it lasted. He knew better than to think it would endure.
o o o o o o o o o o
So you see now why Elrond found it expedient to end the famous Council and be rid quickly of the extra guests, especially those whose respective standings relative to the Throne of Gondor had so recently been reshuffled. Menethôlwen vascillated between sharp-tongued remarks and tragic silences, and seeing his former lover suffer so was almost more than he could bear. As for Aragorn, while the would-have-been King of Men had put up a good front in the Council, his incessant whining after hours in Elrond's private quarters was wearing on the Elf's nerves. And poor Boromir, realizing that he would never be Steward of Gondor now that there were two living Heirs to the Throne, had sunk into a morose gloom. He spent most of his nights haunting the back hallways and passages of Imladris, where he had on one occasion badly startled Elrond, who mistook him for a vision of the ghost of Elendil, whom Elrond had befriended back in the days of the Last Alliance. Yes, Elrond was eager indeed to get his guests on the road.
After some inquiries, Glorfindel found Menethôlwen in the Library of Imladris. She stood in silent contemplation before a statue of the one of the most beloved of the Valar, Yannabanana, Giver of Fruits, who held in her marble tray the Shards of Narsil.
Narsil was, of course, the ill-fated sword wielded by the equally ill-fated Elendil against the not-yet ill-fated Sauron upon whose armor the sword broke, a shard of which sword was taken up by the soon-to-be ill-fated Isildur and used to cut the One Ring from the hand of the then apparently ill-fated Sauron, who, as you all know, was, in fact, not entirely ill-fated at that point, but rather merely grossly inconvenienced for an extended period of time by the loss of his corporeal existence. And the significance of the solemnity with which Menethôlwen contemplated the Shards was not lost on Glorfindel.
"Aye, leering mire [lovely one], what has so captured your thoughts that you do not notice my footsteps approaching?"
"Nay, penny hour [ancient one], I heard you, but my heart is heavy with memories whose footsteps draw me into another time. You know whereof I speak."
"Nay, lotsa breath mean [listen to me], Menethôlwen, you must not dwell on the past, but look to the future now. For even in these dark times, we still have estel, do we not?"
"Aye, ye hour smelleth knee [my ancient beloved], we have Estel, as you call him. And that is well, for I cannot see all ends and do not know how long my time in this body may last."
"Nay, teething gerkin [my little heart], I speak not of Aragorn, but of the naked trust that is in our very being and abides even in the face of despair, the hope that the Music of El Hoover-Tar is a song that will never end for his Children."
"Aye, mall thin nail [golden one], you are right. While we live, we have estel."
They stood silent for several minutes, each lost in thoughts of Ages past and the possibilities of Ages to come.
Suddenly, the Ninni straightened her shoulders. She took off her shawl and reached to gather up the Shards of Narsil, speaking briskly to her companion.
"For the moment, we also have Estel, and he will have need of this sword. I'm off to the forge, kneed mail lawn [my friend]. I shall see you this evening in the Halls of Fire."
o o o o o o o o o o
After dismissing all the other smiths in the forge, Menethôlwen unwrapped the Shards of Narsil, which she had hidden in her shawl to avoid the notice of prying eyes. She laid the pieces on the anvil, stoked the furnace fire and began laying out the tools she would need.
When all was ready, she walked a wide circle that encompassed the furnace, the anvil and the cooling tub, calling on the Valar to grant her success in the work that lay before her. And as she stood before the anvil, she was not surprised to hear the voice of one of the Vala, Olay, Lord of the Smith.
"Greetings, Menethôlwen of the Ninnir! You are grown yet more beautiful than when last I saw you, those many Yanni [Elven centuries, which are 144 human years each] ago. Truly, the purest gold, silver and copper are spun into the luscious tumble that is your lovely hair!"
"Greetings, Lord of the Smith! You honor me with your presence and flatter me with your admiration. Have you come to guide my hand?"
The Vala stepped forth from the shadows and laughed, a rich, bass chuckle emanating from his muscular chest, and smiled indulgently at the Ninni, saying, "Can the Lord of the Smith not visit his favorite pupil without being put to work?"
Then, reading grim purpose in her beautiful, violet eyes, his expression turned serious.
"You would take upon yourself the mending of That Which Was Broken, my little Olayendil?"
"Yes, Lord Smith. And glad am I indeed to see you, for it may be that I shall have need of your aid in this task."
Olay shook his head and smiled gently.
"Nay, you do not need my help in matters of the forge. Your modesty cannot hide your talent for the working of metals. So remarkable was your craftwork that I was moved to make you the eighth Olayendil, even though my original plan called for but seven, for it was only right and seemly that you should join the ranks of the Olayendi. After all, your skills exceeded even those of the kin of Faywraynor."
At the mention of the name of the maker of the Silmarils, the Ninni paled. Olay bowed his head.
"Forgive me, dear Ninni. I know how painful it is for you to call to mind Faywraynor and his kinsmen. One in particular."
She shook her head, refusing to meet the Vala's eyes.
"Nay, Lord Smith, it is not the memory of Celebrimbor that aggrieves me, but rather the memory of what I allowed him to do."
Olay sighed heavily.
"Menethôlwen, you were not to blame for his actions. You did all you could to turn him from the false glimmer of the Foul One, but in his guise as Annatar, Sauron deceived even the wisest among the Elves of Eregion. That they did not heed your warnings regarding his true nature was their failure, not yours."
"Still," the Ninni said firmly, "I should have stopped him."
Olay shook his head once again. "Nay, I tell you surely, little one, there was none who could stop Celebrimbor once he'd set his mind to do something. Not even I, who made him what was to have been the last of the Olayendi when he was but a child, could wield that power without breaking him utterly. You must let go this guilt, this dark secret you carry within, lest it consume you as the flames of Oroduin once consumed your flesh!"
Perceiving that his words were having no effect, he tenderly put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to meet his steady gaze.
"You mean to go through with this, then? You mean to reforge Narsil by your own hand and using your own magics?"
"Yes, Lord Smith. It is the least I can do."
Olay sighed one last time. Gently, he loosened the laces on the tunic she was wearing, sliding the garment off her right shoulder. He stared into her eyes intently for several heartbeats, awaiting her assent. When she finally nodded -- the barest tilt of her head -- he turned her away from him.
For a moment, she was transported in memory to the night the Vala had made her an Olayendil, a Lover of Olay. The encounter had begun in a forge, of course. The Lord of the Smith had appeared just as she put the finishing touches on a stunningly complex piece of metalwork: an orb of silver containing a rainbow's worth of rare jewels, each resembling a flower on a delicate vine, the whole of the piece bound together by golden filigree as fine as silken spider's thread. Her stunning artistry had moved Olay to deep passion, and so at that moment, he decided he would take one more master smith into his embrace, both for that night and for all time.
When, many hours later, they had abandoned the tables and benches and floors of the forge for the softness of her bed, Olay had raised her up at the moment of his release and placed a kiss on her shoulder. And from the depths of the burning passions the Ninni had stoked within the Vala came a sacred fire that seared the sign of the hammer and anvil into her skin, marking her as a Lover of Olay.
How very long ago it all seemed to her now.
Sensing she was lost in memory once more, Olay recalled her to the present by kissing her shoulder, renewing upon her new body the mark he had once bestowed upon her previous form's flesh during that long ago, but never forgotten night of love. He breathed words of comfort into her ear:
"You will not fail this time, my Little Olayendil."
And then he was gone, like wood smoke into shadows.
Menethôlwen touched the still-warm mark on her shoulder and sighed softly.
"May it be, Lord Smith. May it be."
The furnace was well heated by this time, and seeing this was so, the Ninni took up a pair of tongs and began to heat the first of the sword pieces to be rejoined. When the metal glowed bright red, she stepped to the anvil and selected a heavy hammer for the first rough working. The steady ringing of hammer on metal lulled her into a light trance. And thus while her hands and body worked steadily, guided by her instinctive awareness of the needs of the metals, her mind wandered back to the Second Age, the last time she had set foot in a forge.
The memories called by the pounding of metal on metal were not kindly visitors. Indeed, they tore at her heart, for they held the very deepest secrets of her tortured past, a past so well hidden that not even Elrond knew of it, which is why the Loremaster did not tell of it in the lengthy recitation of her history he gave to his sons. A past so dark, it had led her to give herself the harsh epessë "Anangadae," meaning "Long Iron Shadow, a name she used whenever she travelled among strangers, so she would not forget.
After all, it was because of her that the Rings of Power had been made: the Seven Rings of the Dwarves, which remained hidden; the Nine (or Ten) Rings of Men, which had already corrupted their bearers and made them into Nazgûl; and the Three Rings of the Elves, all of which Sauron now sought to control by taking possession of the One Ring. All of it was her fault.
A single droplet of sweat fell into her eye, startling her back into the present long enough to see the worked metal was ready to be cooled. As she plunged the piece into the vat, a cloud of steam arose, and she was swept back to her memories of the Second Age.
o o o o o o o o o o
When Menethôlwen returned to Middle-earth the second time to guide the construction of the city of Eregion, she soon took to her bed Celebrimbor, grandson of Faywraynor and himself an Olayendi. She did so, not only because his handsome face, red hair and firmly-muscled body delighted her (although they did so without fail), but because Celebrimbor still carried a torch (well, a Faywraynorian lantern, really) for Galadriel, whom he called Artanis, who was happily married to Celeborn. And Menethôlwen still had feelings for Celeborn, who was happily wedded to Galadriel, whom he called Altáriel.
So it was that Menethôlwen, whom Celebrimbor called Meneth, and Celebrimbor, whom Menethôlwen called Brimby, found comfort in each other's arms and beds, as well as various and sundry other parts and places. Menethôlwen had hair of molten gold back then, and when they lay together, its strands would intermingle with the fiery red hair of Celebrimbor like veins of gold running through pure copper. Hers was the cool pool of water in which he tempered his heated steel, and his was the fiery metal that called forth her steamy passion. And in the warmth of each other's arms, their hearts turned toward each other, and love grew in the space between.
Yet never did their fetar [spirits] merge. Celebrimbor had decided many centuries before that the line of Faywraynor and the curse it carried must die with him, and so, despite the pleasures the Ninni and the Smithy took in each other, Celebrimbor never gave himself over completely to his passion for fear of conceiving a child.
However, so great was his secret desire to form a soul-bond with his beloved Ninni that he ignored her warnings and accept the tutelage of Lord Annatar, who he hoped would teach him to forge a Ring of Power that could lift the Doom placed upon his House or at least provide reliable contraception. It was only when Annatar left on a journey (unbeknownst to the Elves, he was on his way to Mordor to forge the One Ring) that the illusions spun by the corrupted Maia faded from Celebrimbor's mind, and he finally realized the truth of Annatar's nature and evil intentions. Shaken to his core by what he had done for Annatar in making the Rings (seven and nine or ten), he confessed his deeds and the motive behind them to Menethôlwen.
The Ninni was moved by the depths of his love and regret, and she agreed to help him forge Rings of Power for the Elves. These Rings would be untainted by the touch of Annatar and so might provide some defense for the Elves in the dark times that must surely lie ahead. Using her magic to create a living fog, she hid Celebrimbor's forge from the evil Maia's senses. The effort required her to sink into a deep trance, and she knew not how much time passed, but when she awakened, Celebrimbor showed her the Three -- Nenya, Varya and Naria.
Now here is where the story gets very interesting. Unbeknownst to Menethôlwen, Celebrimbor had made a fourth Ring. (Or twentieth or twenty-first, depending on how you look at it -- the only son of Curuffian made a lot of rings.)
At first, he kept it secret from her, hoping against hope that the day would come when the Elves would triumph, the Curse would be lifted, and he would be free to wed his beloved Ninni at last. However, when Celebrimbor learned that, despite their efforts, Sauron had detected the existence of the Three and was coming to take them by force, he realized his own doom was near. He gave Menethôlwen the Three and begged her to see them safely into the hands of whichever Elves she felt could best protect them and use them wisely.
Then, on the night before she was to flee Eregion, they made love for what they both knew would be the last time. As they lay together afterward, he brought forth the fourth Ring, saying, "'Tis a gift for you, leering mire [lovely one], for you alone have seen through the pain and anger into the deepest places of my heart and brought me joy and comfort. While I could never give you my heart, I would have you keep something wrought by mine own hands, something for you to wear when at last you find true love with one who can return your love in full measure. My love will be added to his, and thus our own bond shall be completed through his love for you. And when you return again to the Waters of Arda, mayhap we shall be together again, should Nano ever release me from his Walls of Mangos."
Menethôlwen accepted the Fourth Ring of the Elves and pledged that never would she wear it until her heart found true love for another. Then she wept in the arms of her beloved Celebrimbor, and if some of the tears that fell were not hers, who among us would fault the son of Curuffian?
At dawn, she rode forth to find Elrond and begin preparations for building a haven for the Elves in Imaldris, as you heard before in my telling of Elrond's telling of the history of the Ninni. She took with her the Three, and in her journeying, brought Narya, the Red Rain Ring, to Círdan, her first lover; Nenya, the Ring of Atom Ant, to Galadriel, the wife of her third lover, Celeborn; and Vilya, the Ring of Sappho, to Gil-Galad, the lover of her lover-to-be, Elrond.
As for Celebrimbor, his doom was already set, and he met with a very nasty ending at the hands of his former teacher before passing on into the more merciful hands of Nano.
o o o o o o o o o o
The chill of a late afternoon breeze brought Menethôlwen back to the present. She found that her hands had continued to do their work even as her mind had wandered. Before her on the bench sat Narsil, the sword that had cut the One Ring from the hand of Sauron the Deceiver, now once again made whole.
But as an Olayendi, one who hears the Music of the Metals in the song of El Hoover-Tar, she knew a sword can never truly be remade. In the reforging, something is lost and something added, and so it must be engraved anew and renamed. And so she traced upon the blade the sun and the moon and many runes of power, singing under her breath as she magically etched the ancient symbols into the metal. Finally, she emblazoned the blade with the Valley Circle, the seven stars of the Sickle of the Valar.
All that remained was to rename the weapon. As she prepared to invoke the blessing of Olay, the Lord of the Smith, she paused, suddenly uncertain about the path she had chosen. What name should the Sword Once Broken But Now Remade bear as it went forth to settle its unfinished business with Sauron the Deceiver?
Then it came to her. Underhill. The sword's name would be Underhill, for it carried under its shining surface the dark secret of her past. And perhaps in its wielding, this newly reborn sword would finally grant her release her from her shame.
(To be continued)
o o o o o o o o o o
Notes:
As for Erunyauve, the Purits and Gil Shalos, well, all I can say is well, Not Nice stuff. I rilly rilly like Menethôlwen, and everybody else should, too, cuz she's so awesome and beautiful and talented and smart. But she is NOT a Mary Sue, 'kay? NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT. So there! And all you losers who say she is r just saying that cuz I'm getting laid and you aren't. (Well, Menethôlwen is getting laid, so that's, like, the same thing, right?)
Vorondis, I sneeked in a li'l sumthing 4 u, 2. Didja catch it? (Peeps: if ya wanna read a rilly kool story 'bout the Elves in the old times -- like, back b4 the movies -- go read Vorondis' story, "Mortal Shores" at Henneth Annun cuz its rilly good 'n it has GLORFY in it!!!! Plus Gill-glud 'n Gladriel 'n Celeborn. And a rilly hot Elfie she made up all by herself, Tárion - SQUEAL!!!!)
Hey Finch, I no u like an Elf named Thinrod, but he iznt in the movie credits so I don't no who he iz. But Brimby is an old Elf 2, so I hope he was hot enuf 4 u. Cuz he does use fire for his work, rit? - ha ha!!!!! Thanks for all that stuff about Fingolfball. I'm not much in2 sports, but it sounds kool. I wonder if PJ will put it in the third movie????
Círdan, didja like the Brimby scenes 'n all that stuff about the forge? I hope it cheered u up a bit. Hey, peeps, if ya wanna read some rilly kewl stories about Brimby, check out Círdan's stories at Edhellond and here on ff.net (ID 210427). I got the idea for the magic mark from her fic, "Music of the Metals." Check out that one 'n all her other stories on her webpage, too! Ya know, that reminds me: Aerlinnel has an awesome story 'bout Brimby and Gladdy called, "Aftermath of Fire." It's rilly sad, but good, so check it out here on ff.net (her ID is 78472).