Eärendil raised his eyes to heaven and whispered, 'Anytime now.'

Celt thought she heard an Eagle's scream a moment before a blinding flash of lightning shook the house, immediately followed by a deafening roll of thunder. When the (diamond) dust settled, Maglor was curled into a tiny ball, Celt and Mihi were cowering in a corner, and the Heavenly Mariner stood in triumph over two benign stuffed dolls.

Such was the power of Elder King, apparently. RandomCelt tried not think about what else this turn of events might imply. With a satisfied smile, Eärendil bent to retrieve the Twin Terrors, now firmly incarcerated in a state of plush, and tucked them into his pocket. He then turned to face the Wayfaring Strangers, who had uncurled and now looked on in bewildered relief (A sentiment somewhat marred by Celt's horrified realization: she was actually a bit sorry to see Fëanor go. Just a bit. But still).

Maglor shuffled forward. 'I... I apologize for everything my father has said and done. No-one deserves to put up with him.'

'It's okay,' Celt said quickly, 'He really wasn't too much of a pain – and it's not like he's your fault.'

The Elf smiled halfheartedly at her. 'I know,' he murmured, 'I know.'

Mihi cleared her throat. 'Thank you guys so much for ...handling that. Do I even want to know why they ended up here in the first place?'

'Probably not,' Eärendil conceded, 'though I believe it had something to do with Varda being bored and Mandos coming this close to a mental breakdown.'

'Right,' Celt whispered. What else had the Professor left out? She was trying her level best not to stare at their First Age guests and failing miserably. Eärendil! Bright Eärendil, the heavenly Mariner... Fortunately, the Silmaril was doing an admirable job of blinding anyone who attempted to look its bearer in the eye. It was funny, though, Celt thought, almost like looking at a dim star. If you looked away, it shone brightly in the periphery of your vision, but if you looked right at it, it just... wasn't there anymore. Mortal eyes and Immortal Light, she supposed.

She noticed, however, that Maglor's eyes kept straying toward the Jewel, at which point he would shake himself and visibly focus on something else. And Maglor! Celt had written poems about him; it was as if her Muse had appeared before her – and sung. She wondered briefly if Milton would have been jealous. ('Sing, heav'nly muse...')

She had to admire his self-control, especially after the stunt Fëanor had pulled. Maybe all those years stuck in the Timeless Halls had made the greatest of the Noldor even more … unstable than he had been already. In any event, she was almost positive that being incarnated into a plush state had done something strange to his judgment. Sauron, too. Celt's suspicion was that the plushies were a bit like Tinkerbell in Peter Pan: both were too small to hold more than one emotion at a time.

'Eärendil?' Maglor asked after a moment, 'why didn't you just leave the Jewel in your cabin?

'I thought it might prove a useful distraction,' the Mariner answered, 'which it did. Perhaps too useful.' He rubbed his alabaster brow, which Fëanor had been punching.

The Elf nodded slowly and then turned abruptly to Celt. 'Thank you for letting me play your Pianoforte. It's been a couple hundred of your years since I touched one.'

'You're welcome,' she stammered, 'Thank you for the song. It was,' she fumbled for the right word, but there was none, other than, 'beautiful.'

He smiled sadly and shook his head, tangled hair swaying. She looked to her twin for support, but Mihi had slipped into the kitchen and was rummaging around for... something.

Eärendil cleared his throat and moved toward the door. 'Thank you for looking after these miscreants. I trust word of these tidings will reach none?'

Once again, Celt nodded in a fashion comparable to that of the Lafayette bobble-head.

'Then we must away. Maglor?'

The Elf moved to join him, casting one last look at the piano.

'Farewell, DarthMihi and RandomCelt, scribes of the internet. May your stories make bold the hearts of their readers,' the Mariner intoned, a light dancing behind his eyes.

'Farewell,' Maglor said softly. 'Don't forget your songs.'

Celt wanted to ask what he meant, but the words stuck in her throat. His eyes were kind and sad.

'Hang on,' Mihi blurted, and rushed forward holding out a Tupperware. 'We just made pizza and it seems like one long ride you're starting on... It's still warm and really good, honestly.'

Eärendil smiled and took the proffered gift. 'I thank you, Lady Mihi, for a joy unhoped for.'

And with that they were gone. The door thumped shut, leaving the grey street and the cloudy sky just as they had always been, before –

'Before,' murmured Celt, 'before legends walked in the green grass.' Or, in this case, on the green carpet. The carpet still covered a dust of diamonds that was just waiting to disembowel the vacuum cleaner from the inside out.


And here you go! This story is officially back on track. I don't know if you've noticed, but I went back and re-edited the earlier chapters. So if anything looks different, that's why. Thanks again for sticking with this fic. :)

One more item of note: the full chapter title (which was too long, apparently) is If This Is to End in Plush (Then We Will All Shrink Together).

-RandomCelt