In which Lorna gets to do some queen stuff (with profanity, and without knowing that's actually what she's doing), Sharley fucks up (big time), and Thranduil wonders just what the hell they're going to do about Von Ratched (and has no answers).
Sharley was well used to not knowing what the fuck she was doing – it was why she so rarely actually did anything. This, however, could not sensibly be avoided. Sure, she probably couldn't do a damn thing to Sauron, but probability was not certainty.
She'd wound Time down on a lot of stuff before, mainly for practice, but never on an actual person. At least, no matter what she did, she couldn't actually kill him – the trouble was that she didn't know what it would do. Assuming it actually worked, would his mind regress, too? Would she have to go through all that mental exploration all over again? Because that would seriously suck.
It'll probably fail, she told herself. This was just to make sure of that. She didn't quite know where Sauron fell on the divinity scale, but he was probably more or less her level when it came to base strength. He just had over twenty thousand years more experience than her, and way, way more control. While he couldn't kill her, she had no doubt at all that he'd beat her in a fight. The only way she'd be able to stop him would be wrecking Time all around them, and that was a thing she'd have no idea how to contain. If she did it wrong – and she was sure she would – she'd break…well, Arda. And she couldn't think of a damn thing worth that.
And that, really, was her problem. She technically had access to power far beyond her, but all she could do with it was destroy. She really wasn't kidding when she said she was a useless deity, but it wasn't like there was anyone who could teach her. Oh, she'd managed Angmar, but that could all too easily have gone catastrophically wrong. Not that she was going to tell anyone. They were too scared of her already.
Weirdly, that was the refreshing thing about Sauron: he wasn't afraid of her. He didn't need to be. He was the one person she wished would fear her, but that was just her luck.
Granted, if she fucked up enough, maybe he'd start being scared. He did, after all, want a world to rule. What he ought to fear was not her, but her incompetence. God knew it scared her.
Well. There was nothing for it. They might as well get this over with.
Lorna, like Thranduil, approached their somber task with the aid of a great deal of wine. For now they planned with precious few, taking up far too little space at the long oak table in his private meeting-room.
She was only vaguely familiar with the two lords and lady who had joined them – all the friends she'd made were, as a snob might put it, from her own class of people, and these three were definitely not it. Golden-haired Lady Silwen she had met in passing, but Lord Morphindien and Lord Vehiron were totally unknown to her. Morphindien was visibly devastated; his son had been among the casualties, and Lorna thought it frankly cruel that he had to be here now. She silently pushed a very large glass of wine across the table to him, since God knew it was helping her; she felt both warm and slightly distant.
"What are your people's funeral traditions?" Silwen asked, curiosity in her grave blue eyes.
"In Ireland? A bit like what I've seen'v yours, really. There's the funeral, and then there's the wake – the funeral honors the dead, and the wake celebrates their life. There's more singing, and stories, and a lot'v drinking. The wake's for the living, really – so that the family's not alone in their grief."
"Would you be willing to add to our laments? To sing one of your land's dirges?"
Lorna considered that. "In Ireland, that's not quite how it works," she said. "Or at least, not anymore. I've known a lot'v people that've died, but the only one who got a proper funeral was my first husband. I'd just got out of hospital – what we call healing wards on Earth – and I was on so much pain medication that I don't rightly remember it. I'm sure I can think'v something, though."
Silwen winced, even as Thranduil took Lorna's hand. "Goheno nin, Lorna. I should not have asked."
"It's all right. When you're mortal, you get used to losing people. You haven't really got a choice." A thought occurred to her. "On Earth, we've got what're called grief counselors. They help people through what're known as the five stages – denial, bargaining, depression, anger, and acceptance, though I've no idea if I've got those in the right order. Might be I can teach some'v those who've not lost anyone to help those who have." She looked at Morphindien. "One'v the first things they say is not to hold it in."
"What does that mean?" he asked dully. He still hadn't touched his wine.
"Means cry. Scream at the unfairness of the universe. Smash things, if you've got to, and know that someday you'll see them again. At least you people know where you go when you die. Those you lost'll be waiting for you."
All three of them looked appalled. "You did this?" Silwen asked.
"Most'v us do. The thing is, even though we know we'll die one day, we're still devastated and furious when we lose those we love. Death's never fair, whether you're mortal or not."
Thranduil squeezed her hand. "We have already had the burial," he said. "With the number of our…guests…we cannot have a proper feast. But we will make our laments, and tell our stories, while we still have a chance."
"Lord Morphindien," Lorna said, as gently as she could, "drink that. Don't just bottle your grief up. You had your kid so much longer than I had mine – let it out, while you've got a chance. Trust me, you'll feel better later, hard as it is to believe."
He blinked at her, a little of the dullness leaving his dark eyes. "I did not know you had a child," he said.
"I…almost did," she sighed. "Losing him or her's a big part'v why I was in hospital – the healing wards – for so long on Earth. I mourned like a bastard – it's got to be worse for you, so don't sit on it. If you can't handle this, I don't care if it's your job – you send somebody else to do it. Nobody'll blame you for it, and if they do, I'll jam my boot so far up their arse they'll taste leather for a week."
Lord Vehiron actually choked a little, and she hoped it was with laughter, not horror. Not that she cared if it was horror.
"Lorna's wording is not what I would have chosen, but her sentiment is," Thranduil said, just a touch dryly. "Morphindien, I suspect your wife needs you more than I do. Go to her. I can find others to aid me, who have not suffered your loss."
"Thank you, my lord," Morphindien breathed, and, to Lorna's relief, did down much of his glass of wine. She was certain that no decent grief counselor would advocate drinking one's pain away, but in the first stages, she'd sure as hell found it helpful. It had been that or lose her mind.
Morphindien left, shoulders hunched, and she sighed. There were hundreds of others like him, grieving children or parents or siblings. It must be a lot harder on Elves, since death was almost unnatural to them – if not for violence, they literally lived forever. She wasn't sure just how well grief counseling would work for any of them, but it was worth a shot.
"All right," she said. "So we've got food and singing, which honestly, are pretty universal across every culture. How long does official mourning go on? Is there anything people are meant to wear?"
"There is no official period of mourning," Thranduil said. "As to clothing, I did not realize your people did anything of that sort."
"Well, we don't really anymore, but back in the day, when people died a lot easier, there were all sorts'v customs for it, depending on where you lived. In some places, there still is. It just depends on the culture." Her knowledge of cultures outside of Ireland was pretty hazy – she'd blame that on leaving school at fourteen, and not being the greatest at attendance even before that – but she knew that everyone grieved in different ways. "I never really understood it myself, since it's just a big, fat reminder of all you've lost."
"I do not think it will be a custom we will import. We have too much to do, and possibly too little time to do it in."
Sharley spent three hours assessing Sauron's Time-lines before she even dared touch one.
The trouble was that, being so old, he had one of the most complicated webs of them she'd ever seen. Even catching hold of a single one took every ounce of concentration she had, and when she'd managed it, she was damn glad she couldn't feel pain, because holy shit did it burn.
Unspooling something's Time was theoretically quite simple, but again, he had so very much of it that she often lost track of where this thread went. His web wasn't so much a web as a cat's-cradle, and it was exasperating as fuck.
She looked at the line, twined as it was through her fingers. It was no wonder it burned – it was magma-bright, the light flaring and ebbing with its own pulse. There was nothing for it but to pull, and hope she could stop before the whole knot came apart.
"Can I just reiterate what a terrible fucking idea this is?" Kurt asked.
"Your opinion has been noted and ignored," Sharley muttered. "Stranger, let him know we're doing this." Lingering human instinct led her to draw a deep breath, and she pulled, very gently.
Oh, fuck.
Never in her life had she seen Time unwind this fast. The thread floated into the air all around her, a glittering line of red light, but it was joined by another, golden as the sun, snapped free of the main mass. It was joined by a third, charcoal-grey, and a fourth that flared blue-black. What the fuck? Time didn't do this, not unless she forced it to, and she'd done no such thing now.
"Pack it in," Sinsemilla warned.
"I'm trying." Panic bloomed in her chest like a malignant flower as she snatched at the broken threads, trying to reconnect them, but no sooner did she manage it than two more took their place. She tried desperately to cauterize the temporal wound, to halt her unwinding, but it wasn't fucking working, and why the fuck was it not working?
She sank her fingers into the main mass, slamming the whole thing to a halt. Mercifully, that worked; all the threads froze, suspended in the air. Sharley stared at them, and at Sauron, caught wholly out of Time. What the hell had she just done?
There would be no finding out until she'd reconnected all the threads, and tried to shove them back where they belonged. There was no way she could have harmed him physically, but for all she knew, she might well have just scrambled his brain. It was doubtful, seeing as he was some kind of god, but you never knew. She certainly didn't.
If she had, at least it happened here, in the middle of nowhere. If that other thing did it, and he lost his shit in the middle of a battle, that would be…bad. Very bad. Beyond bad.
"Sharley, did you just break the fucking Dark Lord?" Jimmy demanded.
"I sure as hell hope not." This would be a lot easier if her hands weren't shaking so much. "He'll be useless if I did." All his Time was still there, so hopefully so were his memories. They might not be in the right order, but at least they were somewhere in his head.
Probably. She really, really hoped so, anyway.
She released the lines, and heaved an instinctive (if useless) sigh of relief when they stayed put – no more broke loose to flail in the air. "Okay, Stranger," she said, "what the fuck did I just do?"
The helmet turned toward her as the Stranger returned to her mind. "You have made a very large mistake," it said, expressionless as ever. "He wants to know who you are, and who I am."
Well, shit. "How far back did I take him?"
"He wishes to know why he does not have his Ring, and how it is he has lost Celebrimbor."
Celebrimbor…Sharley snatched through Middle-Earth's Time, hunting for the name. When she found it, she groaned.
"Did I seriously just send this fucker's mind back to the fucking First Age?"
"Not just his mind, you foolish child. If you can get that helmet off his head, I think you will find he has regained his shapeshifting abilities."
She didn't wind up needing to. He took the thing off himself, and yep, there was the Sauron from her mind – so very, very, disturbingly close to human.
"Oh, god-fucking-dammit," she sighed.
She'd just gone and made this a billion times worse. If he could shapeshift again, he could fool damn near anybody. Not her, who would always see his Time for what it was, but most people. "Screw this," she muttered, and stabbed him. If he didn't know who she was anymore, he'd best re-learn what she could do, at least. Now she was going to have to baby-sit the son of a bitch until she could figure out how to undo what she'd just done.
The look he gave her was so offended that she would have laughed, if her mood hadn't already been so shitty. "Stranger, go give him the Cliff Notes version, and let him know that if he tries to wander off and be…him…he'll regret it." She stabbed him again, just for good measure.
Fuck her life.
Lorna might not realize she'd just been put through a test, but she had, and she'd passed. She'd been very, well, her, but her first act as unofficial queen had been compassion. Profane compassion, but compassion nonetheless. Thranduil was pleased.
Legolas, he found, was not. In fact, his son looked ready to tear his own hair out, despite the half-empty wine jug on his desk. Tauriel looked as though she wanted to tear his hair out, too; she sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of parchment.
"Ionneg, we really must get you your own study," Thranduil said. "Tauriel, you obviously need more wine. Where are Galion and Marty?"
"Relocating people, along with Elladan," Legolas said. "Galion is more personable than Tauriel, and Marty can be terrifying when she chooses. The combination is more effective that anything I could do on my own."
"I am feeling far less than personable right now," Tauriel growled. "I do not understand the hierarchy of Imladris, and if it was not my job, I would not care. This is why such tasks usually fall to nobility," she added, with a very pointed look at Legolas, who actually flinched.
It was all Thranduil could do not to laugh. "The hierarchy of Imladris must become accustomed to change," he said. "Put them where there is room, and if they protest, simply tell them I told you to."
"Thank you, my lord," she breathed, her shoulders sagging with relief. "It will certainly make dealing with the refugees from Lothlórien easier."
Legolas shuddered. "Do not remind me. I am surprised they did not arrive first, being so much closer. I hope that doesn't mean they ran into some nasty thing we do not yet know about."
"They are not far enough north for it to be Thorvald, at least," Thranduil said. "From all I understand, his creatures can only live within his darkness, and it as yet covers little ground."
The darkness is hardly the only ill to befall us of late," Legolas pointed out. "What if there are more of those Memories?"
"Then we are very likely all going to die."
"No one is allowed to die and undo all my careful work," Tauriel said firmly. "Likely they are not here yet because Lord Elrohir was late in reaching them. Knowing our luck, they will turn up on our doorstep tomorrow." By her tone, she found the idea as welcome as a dose of plague. She was still glowering at the stacks of parchment, as though trying to set them afire by sheer will alone.
"Tauriel, I ought to have appointed you to the Council centuries ago," Thranduil said. "It might not have been more productive, but it would have been infinitely more entertaining."
She shuddered. "I am thankful you did not, my lord. Sooner or later, someone would have left with a broken arm."
Thranduil honestly would not have minded seeing that. "Rest, the pair of you. Come back to this later." He swept back out of the room and continued onward, inspecting his halls and their people. Lorna was getting her back dealt with, which, worryingly, Galasríniel said might take some time; he therefore had to find a way to occupy himself, and seeing to his people and his guests seemed the best way to do that.
He was not, however, pleased to see Von Ratched exploring the path below him, running his hands over one of the pillars. The man had unnaturally long fingers, and seemed just a bit too tactile. In dark Elvish garb, his pale hair long over his collar, he could blend into Middle-Earth far easier than any of the other Edain from his world.
He would not, Thranduil was sure, have put the necessary weapons in his room. They'd be hidden somewhere, and Thranduil really wished they could just torture the information out of him.
Alas, thanks to his telekinesis, that was impossible. For now, they were stuck with him. Thranduil also wished Sharley was there – if anyone could keep him in line with little risk, it was her. Unfortunately, if she was indeed with Sauron, it would likely be a long while before they saw her again. Whatever those two were up to, he doubted either was enjoying it.
Nice job breaking it, Sharley. Why is Sauron getting back his shapeshifting abilities so very, very bad? It's not just because he can look like whoever he wants – he's got 'giant bat' and 'werewolf' in his repertoire as well, and by implication, a shitload of other things. The only good thing is that he has absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on, and will get a few nasty shocks along the way.
Title means "shit" in Irish. You know the drill: reviews are my sustenance. Feed me, Seymour.