A/N: I was going to try to post this tomorrow or the day after, but I have the patience of a small, furry mammal, so here it is a day or two early. This chapter actually parodies TWO songs. I'll let you guess and see if you can figure them out. Merry Christmas and thanks for reading! Oh, and what were your thoughts on Hobbit the 3rd?

Valinor:

"Sir, you really should come see this."

Eönwë glanced up from the great piles of paperwork littering his oaken desk. "What is it?" he asked the guard in the doorframe irritably. "I'm rather busy at present, as you can see."

"Something's going on with the prisoner," the guard said quickly. He had heard the Lord Eönwë was particularly unpleasant about the incarcerated Maia minstrel.

The lord in question sighed. "What now?"

"Um… you'd better come see for yourself."

Swearing on the inside, Eönwë faked a smile and laid down his quill. "Very well. Show me."

When they arrived at the cell, everything seemed normal. Everything, that is, except for the clinking of invisible sleigh bells and a tenor voice belting its version of Yule carols at the top of its lungs.

"You know Snowmane and Stybba

Windfola, Roheryn,

Hasufel, Arod,

And old Fatty-Lumpkin

But do you recall the most famous Great Steed of all?

. . .

King Thranduil, late of Mirkwood

Used to ride a giant stag

Who seemed to be prehistoric

And had some major antler swag.

. . .

All of the other quadrupeds

Used to laugh and call him names

But the Giant Stag of Mirkwood

Didn't care for equine games.

. . .

Then one stormy afternoon,

After Smaug the Dragon fell

Thranduil stormed down to the caves,

'Esgaroth, we're off to save!'

. . .

And so they charged off to battle,

The Great Stag proudly led the way,

Fighting for glittery silver gems,

And to maybe save the day."

"Oh, Illúvatar," groaned Eönwë. "Is nothing safe from him?"

"Sir?" asked the guard.

"Never mind." He staggered away from the empty cell, retreating to the relative quiet of his office. "If you need me, I'll be in my study."

"But what should we do about him?"

Alas, even Eönwë had a limit, and this was it. "Stuff cotton into your ears. I don't care. You can't defeat him. He will never be silent."

As if to prove his point, the voice picked up in a new song:

"You're a mean one, Eönwë.

You really are a jerk

You're as cuddly as an old troll

You're as charming as an orc,

Eönwë.

. . . . . .

You're a monster, Eönwë

Your heart's an empty hole!

Your brain is full of spiders.

You've got darkness in your soul, Eönwë.

I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole.

. . .

You're a vile one, Eönwë.

You have betrayal in your smile

You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick necrophile,

Eönwë.

Given the choice between the two of you,

I'd take the seasick necrophile . . ."