My co-authoress wanted to say this to Cake Eater, our beloved reviewer:
My original reviewer, it is always a pleasure to please you. And intrigued (you spelt it fine, silly!) and inspired are even better! The whole idea behind this joint vehicle of ours is all Schiz; as you'll see in her first chap (coming soon!), she's thought out this whole world, assigned names to all the lands and rulers and creatures... it's all very intricate. Portman as a guardian angel is also her (fabulous) idea. At the risk of sounding terribly conceited, I was rather proud of the way this chapter turned out, and I loved reading what you thought. You, quimby, have always been one of my most observant readers, and it's wonderful to see you pick up on so much... I'm a total Shakespeare freak, and the whole Fulton/Pakka/Lobo thing was heavily lifted from Hamlet, of which The Lion King is a blatant rip-off... plus, the fact that I moved it into a werewolf pack was sure to highlight the Disney connection... lions... lycanthropes, you know... The best, though, was your mention of Where the Wild Things Are. Quimby, I love you. That was exactly how I imagined the Forest of the Were in my mind. That book was one of my very favourites as a child, and I'd always make my mother stop reading before he decided to go back to his room at the end. I couldn't understand why he'd ever want to go back, when he could have been King of the Beasts... that's how I wanted the story to end... explains a lot, don't it?... Glad you like the Pakka stuff... I have a rather intricate history etched out in my mind, and more will be revealed in coming chapters... I like the idea of my readers piecing together the story of what happened...And you often feel connected to Fulton, don't you? That's what drew me to him in the first place, and I always put far more of myself into him than any other Duck I write... Now I'm babbling almost as much as you, so I'll cut off here, but know that your reviews are always cherished...
-------------------
Schiz's Notes: I'm drawing from Scandinavian myth, Arthurian legend, Celtic myth, and J.R.R. Tolkein here. I own none of it. Don't you dare sue me.
Oh, and Q? Thanks for the self-esteem boost. You rock my socks like a brand-new Nirvana poster. i'd say more, but lycanthrope has already said it all.
****
"A World Apart"
Disgrace, part I: Oh, How Far the Mighty Have Fallen
It was a realm of indescribable beauty, a place that desperate men dream of and long for and never know. Some called it Alfheim, others Avalon, still others Tir-na-nog. The elves called it home, and had for ages, ever since they left the Earth. The Elves of the Light, as they called themselves, had come from Middle Earth following the defeat of Sauron and the rise of the race of Men. The Elves of the Darkness had come from the mirror-realm of Earth, of which the kingdom of Drakityd was part, following one of the innumerable Great Wars that had decimated their kind.
Alfheim was not a separate world in its own right, nor was it a mirror for the twin worlds of Earth. Picture two hotel rooms connected by a door; these two rooms would be Earth, and Alfheim would be the hallway with access to both rooms. It is a rough metaphor, but it fulfills its purpose.
Alfheim always had two rulers: an Elf of the Light, and an Elf of the Darkness. Its rulers at the time of this tale were Daegese'age the Fair and Gwalchgwyn the Swift. [1] The beauty of Daegese'age is legendary; many elfish minstrels sing of her hair--'white gold as spun moonlight'--or her delicate hands, or her eyes--'blue stars full of passionate fire and kindness.' Gwalchgwyn earned renown as a fierce warrior--'as light and quick of step as the breeze, as fearsome as the werebeast hunting through the trees'--and protected his lovely queen's honor with a dedication bordering on obsession.
One of Gwalchgwyn's most trusted warriors, an elf of the Silver Guard, loved the Elf Queen's honor with the same dedication. His true name has never been spoken by any save his mother and father, both of whom were dead, and so everyone called him Gordon. Gordon's skill as an archer and a swordsman were unparalleled in his prime...but unfortunately, his prime had ended long ago.
Gordon slumped against the door to his chambers and took another long drink from the green glass bottle in his hand. He was small and blue-eyed, with hair the color of wet sand; this was a strange thing for an Elf of the Light, for most of his kindred were tall, willowy, and golden. He was also very, very drunk. And currently in the middle of an off-key rendition of a violent drinking song.
"Gordon!" A familiar voice exclaimed.
"What are you doing?" An equally familiar voice demanded. Gordon looked up and saw his father's friends, Hans and Jan, coming toward him. He gave them an inebriated smile and slid down to sit splay-legged on the smooth stone.
"...And the blood flowed like wine 'cross the floo-oo-oor!" Gordon finished, grinning stupidly. Jan dragged the young man to his feet while Hans grabbed Gordon's key and unlocked the door.
"You fool," Hans hissed, "you pay heed to neither the warnings of we, your closest friends, nor to those of King Gwalchgwyn!"
"Yes," Jan agreed as he hauled Gordon into the room, "you will be thrown out of the Silver Guard if anyone reports that you were drunk in public again."
Hans pulled down the covers and helped his brother carry Gordon--for a small elf, he was rather heavy when he was half-conscious--to the bed. He pulled off Gordon's boots and informed him seriously, "I may report you, myself."
"You wouldn't do that to me, would you, Hans?" Gordon asked, emotional in his drunken state. He clung to the old man's shirtfront, pale eyes swimming with tears; "You wouldn't do that to a friend...?"
"Oh, hush." Jan soothed, glancing at Hans with reproach in his gaze. "Hans won't report you. I wouldn't let him."
***
"Gordon, you have shamed the Silver Guard for the last time!" Gwalchgwyn roared, dark eyes flashing bright with rage. Gordon winced and rubbed his temples at the fresh stab of pain that penetrated his brain at the yelling. "Since you have given many years of exemplary service before developing your unfortunate taste for liquor, I give you a choice. You can stay within the palace, but as a groundskeeper, or you can leave Alfheim and inflict your insufferable vices upon the mortals!"
The blood almost completely drained from Gordon's face at his king's words. Horrified, he stared up at Gwalchgwyn in utter speechlessness as his brain--still giddy with alcohol--raced to comprehend the implications of his choices. He could leave Alfheim.
Leave Alfheim? Trade the perfection of the Elf-World--the winds that whispered the secrets of all magic, the gorgeous vistas that surrounded gleaming palaces, the forests and seashores and dark, winding caves that radiated ancientness--for the squalid shithole that mortals and creatures of the night had mutated the realm of Earth into? Worst of all, leave the glorious presence of his Queen, Daegese'age the Fair, and debase himself by defending the honor of the mortal women who would, to his dazzled elfish eyes, appear hideous in comparison? Gordon shuddered at the thought.
Or, stay in Alfheim as a groundkeeper to the Royal Palace. One hardly ever saw the groundskeepers of any elfish citadel, for they were of the lowest status. What Gordon had seen of this class of elves was undistinguished; they were horribly uncouth and unkempt, stooping creatures always holding some implement of their station, skulking in the shadows. Trimming hedges and arbors, raking leaves and the gravel of walkways, mucking out stables and caring for beasts of burden...Gordon shuddered at this thought as well.
"You can always leave," Gwalchgwyn said, growing tired of the silence, "but if you choose to leave now, I cannot ever let you come back."
Gordon dropped his eyes to the flagstones of the floor, considering. If he chose to be a groundskeeper, and found himself unsuited for the task, he could leave then. He looked back up at his king.
"I will stay," he whispered thickly, "I will stay, your Majesty."
***
Gordon stared around his old quarters and wondered what he should take down to the small hut that he would be sharing with the other workers. He touched the elaborate tapestry tracing his family from seven hundred years before the Exodus to the present day, and sighed. It would have to be placed in the keeping of Hans and Jan; there was no way he would risk it to the disrespectful handling of the vile people he was forced to associate with. He eyed the expensive pieces of clothing and other glittering accoutrements that he had acquired over the years. Also unacceptable.
Finally, he decided to act as though he was going on a campaign. A military campaign into a dangerous territory, to contain a threatening contingent of...men? goblins? no, orcs! Yes, orcs, that would work...and it wouldn't take much to convince himself of that imagined fact once he was truly among the lower class of elves. His old equipment pack was put back into use, along with his clothing of a more earthy color and construction.
Gordon realized that this preparation, even though it wasn't really for what he was pretending, was exciting. He remembered, many ages prior, marching from Mirkwood Forest to the Battle of Five Armies. He smiled wryly. Compared to then, he had gone to pasture; there were brats, born and raised in Alfheim, who could handle a sword better than he.
He snorted derisively at the traitorous thought. The younger elves, those who were not alive during the Exodus or who could not remember it were impudent, spoiled little snotrags. Gordon grinned. Snotrag--he'd picked up the term from a man in Laketown--was a fitting term for them. The thought of those arrogant elfish children marching long days or cutting down goblin foes or huddled around tiny smokeless fires during a winter war was completely ludicrous.
And these Gladiatorial Games some of them spoke of, with such awe and hope, what a crock of troll crap! They were *Games,* for Elendil's sake, with *rules* and *misconduct punishments* and other such bloody useless nonsense. Gordon could just imagine the look on the Goblin King's face if one of the little snotrags calling themselves warrior-elves had protested that the creature was guilty of misconduct. Then the idiot would be fittingly laughed at and dismembered.
With that cheerful thought in mind, Gordon strapped his sword to his back and concealed it with his pack, took one last look around his old quarters, and left.
***
Gordon's three roommates stared at him as he entered. He glanced at the oldest one. "Orlan?"
"Aye," the elf grunted. "You'll be Gordon, eh? Your bed s'over there," He pointed to one of the small pallets, shoved in the corner of the hut. Orlan pointed to the middle of the floor. "Don' step there. That's the firepit. Put your things in the cupboard without a label, an' put your name on it."
Gordon did as he was told, quickly noting the names on the other cupboards, all of which were built into the wall of the hut. Orlan, Sedo, and Malifer. Orlan had long, stringy hair the color of iron surrounding a heavily lined, swarthy face with a strong nose, thin-lipped, scowling mouth, and suspicious black eyes. Sedo's head was shorn, a sunburnt scalp clashing oddly with his walnut-brown face; his eyes were shifty and strangely colorless. Malifer was very, very pale, the color of watery milk; his eyes and thick, curly hair were the same shade of dark gold. Orlan and Sedo were Dark Elves and as they stood and walked toward Gordon, he saw that both were severely stooped. Malifer was a Light Elf--young enough to be Alfheim-born--not so bent as his fellows were, but he limped awfully.
Sedo grabbed Gordon's hand and turned roughly, it so that the palm faced up. Gordon just barely resisted the urge he had to punch the foul creature in the face and drive the cartilage in his squashy nose up into his brain. Sedo grinned. "Soft hands," he told Orlan scornfully.
Gordon didn't know what that meant. His hands were certainly *not* soft! They were rough and calloused from sword-hilts and bows, from clinging to and climbing trees and stones...
Then Orlan pressed his hand to Gordon's. Gordon's eyes went wide with surprise; the old elf's palm felt as though it was made of granite. Orlan grunted. "He'll toughen up. Just like Mal here."
Sedo laughed and the two Dark Elves left. Malifer smiled hesitantly at Gordon through the gloom. "You're an Elf of the Light, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"They'll be terribly cruel to you. Mucking out stables and moving stones on the first day. They say that we have to be treated harshly just so we get level with them."
Gordon stared at his companion for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was disarmingly soft and gentle, with an undercurrent of pure icy anger. "I was at the Battle of Five Armies, I was defending Gondor in our last days among those of Middle Earth. I have gone into the darker Earth of our brethren and faced vampires, werewolves, demons. I have killed more goblins, orcs, men, and dark beings than you have ever known in your life. I surpass these common, skulking bastards."
Malifer made a small noise of fear. Gordon smiled. He hadn't lost his touch as much as they all thought, after all.
***
[1] Sorry. These are very Old English/Welsh names. You may pronounce them this way: (DAY-gese-AH-gey) and (GWALL-che-gwinn)
My original reviewer, it is always a pleasure to please you. And intrigued (you spelt it fine, silly!) and inspired are even better! The whole idea behind this joint vehicle of ours is all Schiz; as you'll see in her first chap (coming soon!), she's thought out this whole world, assigned names to all the lands and rulers and creatures... it's all very intricate. Portman as a guardian angel is also her (fabulous) idea. At the risk of sounding terribly conceited, I was rather proud of the way this chapter turned out, and I loved reading what you thought. You, quimby, have always been one of my most observant readers, and it's wonderful to see you pick up on so much... I'm a total Shakespeare freak, and the whole Fulton/Pakka/Lobo thing was heavily lifted from Hamlet, of which The Lion King is a blatant rip-off... plus, the fact that I moved it into a werewolf pack was sure to highlight the Disney connection... lions... lycanthropes, you know... The best, though, was your mention of Where the Wild Things Are. Quimby, I love you. That was exactly how I imagined the Forest of the Were in my mind. That book was one of my very favourites as a child, and I'd always make my mother stop reading before he decided to go back to his room at the end. I couldn't understand why he'd ever want to go back, when he could have been King of the Beasts... that's how I wanted the story to end... explains a lot, don't it?... Glad you like the Pakka stuff... I have a rather intricate history etched out in my mind, and more will be revealed in coming chapters... I like the idea of my readers piecing together the story of what happened...And you often feel connected to Fulton, don't you? That's what drew me to him in the first place, and I always put far more of myself into him than any other Duck I write... Now I'm babbling almost as much as you, so I'll cut off here, but know that your reviews are always cherished...
-------------------
Schiz's Notes: I'm drawing from Scandinavian myth, Arthurian legend, Celtic myth, and J.R.R. Tolkein here. I own none of it. Don't you dare sue me.
Oh, and Q? Thanks for the self-esteem boost. You rock my socks like a brand-new Nirvana poster. i'd say more, but lycanthrope has already said it all.
****
"A World Apart"
Disgrace, part I: Oh, How Far the Mighty Have Fallen
It was a realm of indescribable beauty, a place that desperate men dream of and long for and never know. Some called it Alfheim, others Avalon, still others Tir-na-nog. The elves called it home, and had for ages, ever since they left the Earth. The Elves of the Light, as they called themselves, had come from Middle Earth following the defeat of Sauron and the rise of the race of Men. The Elves of the Darkness had come from the mirror-realm of Earth, of which the kingdom of Drakityd was part, following one of the innumerable Great Wars that had decimated their kind.
Alfheim was not a separate world in its own right, nor was it a mirror for the twin worlds of Earth. Picture two hotel rooms connected by a door; these two rooms would be Earth, and Alfheim would be the hallway with access to both rooms. It is a rough metaphor, but it fulfills its purpose.
Alfheim always had two rulers: an Elf of the Light, and an Elf of the Darkness. Its rulers at the time of this tale were Daegese'age the Fair and Gwalchgwyn the Swift. [1] The beauty of Daegese'age is legendary; many elfish minstrels sing of her hair--'white gold as spun moonlight'--or her delicate hands, or her eyes--'blue stars full of passionate fire and kindness.' Gwalchgwyn earned renown as a fierce warrior--'as light and quick of step as the breeze, as fearsome as the werebeast hunting through the trees'--and protected his lovely queen's honor with a dedication bordering on obsession.
One of Gwalchgwyn's most trusted warriors, an elf of the Silver Guard, loved the Elf Queen's honor with the same dedication. His true name has never been spoken by any save his mother and father, both of whom were dead, and so everyone called him Gordon. Gordon's skill as an archer and a swordsman were unparalleled in his prime...but unfortunately, his prime had ended long ago.
Gordon slumped against the door to his chambers and took another long drink from the green glass bottle in his hand. He was small and blue-eyed, with hair the color of wet sand; this was a strange thing for an Elf of the Light, for most of his kindred were tall, willowy, and golden. He was also very, very drunk. And currently in the middle of an off-key rendition of a violent drinking song.
"Gordon!" A familiar voice exclaimed.
"What are you doing?" An equally familiar voice demanded. Gordon looked up and saw his father's friends, Hans and Jan, coming toward him. He gave them an inebriated smile and slid down to sit splay-legged on the smooth stone.
"...And the blood flowed like wine 'cross the floo-oo-oor!" Gordon finished, grinning stupidly. Jan dragged the young man to his feet while Hans grabbed Gordon's key and unlocked the door.
"You fool," Hans hissed, "you pay heed to neither the warnings of we, your closest friends, nor to those of King Gwalchgwyn!"
"Yes," Jan agreed as he hauled Gordon into the room, "you will be thrown out of the Silver Guard if anyone reports that you were drunk in public again."
Hans pulled down the covers and helped his brother carry Gordon--for a small elf, he was rather heavy when he was half-conscious--to the bed. He pulled off Gordon's boots and informed him seriously, "I may report you, myself."
"You wouldn't do that to me, would you, Hans?" Gordon asked, emotional in his drunken state. He clung to the old man's shirtfront, pale eyes swimming with tears; "You wouldn't do that to a friend...?"
"Oh, hush." Jan soothed, glancing at Hans with reproach in his gaze. "Hans won't report you. I wouldn't let him."
***
"Gordon, you have shamed the Silver Guard for the last time!" Gwalchgwyn roared, dark eyes flashing bright with rage. Gordon winced and rubbed his temples at the fresh stab of pain that penetrated his brain at the yelling. "Since you have given many years of exemplary service before developing your unfortunate taste for liquor, I give you a choice. You can stay within the palace, but as a groundskeeper, or you can leave Alfheim and inflict your insufferable vices upon the mortals!"
The blood almost completely drained from Gordon's face at his king's words. Horrified, he stared up at Gwalchgwyn in utter speechlessness as his brain--still giddy with alcohol--raced to comprehend the implications of his choices. He could leave Alfheim.
Leave Alfheim? Trade the perfection of the Elf-World--the winds that whispered the secrets of all magic, the gorgeous vistas that surrounded gleaming palaces, the forests and seashores and dark, winding caves that radiated ancientness--for the squalid shithole that mortals and creatures of the night had mutated the realm of Earth into? Worst of all, leave the glorious presence of his Queen, Daegese'age the Fair, and debase himself by defending the honor of the mortal women who would, to his dazzled elfish eyes, appear hideous in comparison? Gordon shuddered at the thought.
Or, stay in Alfheim as a groundkeeper to the Royal Palace. One hardly ever saw the groundskeepers of any elfish citadel, for they were of the lowest status. What Gordon had seen of this class of elves was undistinguished; they were horribly uncouth and unkempt, stooping creatures always holding some implement of their station, skulking in the shadows. Trimming hedges and arbors, raking leaves and the gravel of walkways, mucking out stables and caring for beasts of burden...Gordon shuddered at this thought as well.
"You can always leave," Gwalchgwyn said, growing tired of the silence, "but if you choose to leave now, I cannot ever let you come back."
Gordon dropped his eyes to the flagstones of the floor, considering. If he chose to be a groundskeeper, and found himself unsuited for the task, he could leave then. He looked back up at his king.
"I will stay," he whispered thickly, "I will stay, your Majesty."
***
Gordon stared around his old quarters and wondered what he should take down to the small hut that he would be sharing with the other workers. He touched the elaborate tapestry tracing his family from seven hundred years before the Exodus to the present day, and sighed. It would have to be placed in the keeping of Hans and Jan; there was no way he would risk it to the disrespectful handling of the vile people he was forced to associate with. He eyed the expensive pieces of clothing and other glittering accoutrements that he had acquired over the years. Also unacceptable.
Finally, he decided to act as though he was going on a campaign. A military campaign into a dangerous territory, to contain a threatening contingent of...men? goblins? no, orcs! Yes, orcs, that would work...and it wouldn't take much to convince himself of that imagined fact once he was truly among the lower class of elves. His old equipment pack was put back into use, along with his clothing of a more earthy color and construction.
Gordon realized that this preparation, even though it wasn't really for what he was pretending, was exciting. He remembered, many ages prior, marching from Mirkwood Forest to the Battle of Five Armies. He smiled wryly. Compared to then, he had gone to pasture; there were brats, born and raised in Alfheim, who could handle a sword better than he.
He snorted derisively at the traitorous thought. The younger elves, those who were not alive during the Exodus or who could not remember it were impudent, spoiled little snotrags. Gordon grinned. Snotrag--he'd picked up the term from a man in Laketown--was a fitting term for them. The thought of those arrogant elfish children marching long days or cutting down goblin foes or huddled around tiny smokeless fires during a winter war was completely ludicrous.
And these Gladiatorial Games some of them spoke of, with such awe and hope, what a crock of troll crap! They were *Games,* for Elendil's sake, with *rules* and *misconduct punishments* and other such bloody useless nonsense. Gordon could just imagine the look on the Goblin King's face if one of the little snotrags calling themselves warrior-elves had protested that the creature was guilty of misconduct. Then the idiot would be fittingly laughed at and dismembered.
With that cheerful thought in mind, Gordon strapped his sword to his back and concealed it with his pack, took one last look around his old quarters, and left.
***
Gordon's three roommates stared at him as he entered. He glanced at the oldest one. "Orlan?"
"Aye," the elf grunted. "You'll be Gordon, eh? Your bed s'over there," He pointed to one of the small pallets, shoved in the corner of the hut. Orlan pointed to the middle of the floor. "Don' step there. That's the firepit. Put your things in the cupboard without a label, an' put your name on it."
Gordon did as he was told, quickly noting the names on the other cupboards, all of which were built into the wall of the hut. Orlan, Sedo, and Malifer. Orlan had long, stringy hair the color of iron surrounding a heavily lined, swarthy face with a strong nose, thin-lipped, scowling mouth, and suspicious black eyes. Sedo's head was shorn, a sunburnt scalp clashing oddly with his walnut-brown face; his eyes were shifty and strangely colorless. Malifer was very, very pale, the color of watery milk; his eyes and thick, curly hair were the same shade of dark gold. Orlan and Sedo were Dark Elves and as they stood and walked toward Gordon, he saw that both were severely stooped. Malifer was a Light Elf--young enough to be Alfheim-born--not so bent as his fellows were, but he limped awfully.
Sedo grabbed Gordon's hand and turned roughly, it so that the palm faced up. Gordon just barely resisted the urge he had to punch the foul creature in the face and drive the cartilage in his squashy nose up into his brain. Sedo grinned. "Soft hands," he told Orlan scornfully.
Gordon didn't know what that meant. His hands were certainly *not* soft! They were rough and calloused from sword-hilts and bows, from clinging to and climbing trees and stones...
Then Orlan pressed his hand to Gordon's. Gordon's eyes went wide with surprise; the old elf's palm felt as though it was made of granite. Orlan grunted. "He'll toughen up. Just like Mal here."
Sedo laughed and the two Dark Elves left. Malifer smiled hesitantly at Gordon through the gloom. "You're an Elf of the Light, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"They'll be terribly cruel to you. Mucking out stables and moving stones on the first day. They say that we have to be treated harshly just so we get level with them."
Gordon stared at his companion for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was disarmingly soft and gentle, with an undercurrent of pure icy anger. "I was at the Battle of Five Armies, I was defending Gondor in our last days among those of Middle Earth. I have gone into the darker Earth of our brethren and faced vampires, werewolves, demons. I have killed more goblins, orcs, men, and dark beings than you have ever known in your life. I surpass these common, skulking bastards."
Malifer made a small noise of fear. Gordon smiled. He hadn't lost his touch as much as they all thought, after all.
***
[1] Sorry. These are very Old English/Welsh names. You may pronounce them this way: (DAY-gese-AH-gey) and (GWALL-che-gwinn)