Siege Mentality

Chapter Eleven

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For any other, the journey to and from Orthanc would have taken many weeks. It was to the great misfortune of the inhabitants of Imladris that Sarai did not know this. They say that knowledge is power. What they do not say (mainly because those who say such things tend to know far too much for their own good) is that ignorance can also be power, especially when fuelled by adolescent lust. Thus, Sarai accidentally endowed herself with the power to warp time and space, reducing the arduous trip south to a mere two day jaunt, during which she tried to befriend many horrified small fluffy creatures.

So it was that, as soon as Lord Elrond had risen from his sick-bed, to which his wife and forcibly returned him and was pacing the halls grinning at all and sundry, she was busy in the woods setting up the device, having been reassured by Legolas that he only wanted to bring more girls to give her company. Fiddling with the wiring to her satisfaction, she stood up and kissed the Elf.

"That should do it."

Together, they made for a secluded grove, to conduct private experiments which would make Morgoth himself blanch and sue for mercy, clutching a stuffed toy.

But fate was conspiring against Imladris. Back in the world where she belonged, Sarai could barely plug in a hairdryer without shorting out the entire block. While her wiring skills miraculously managed to create a working portal, it was too much of a strain on a reality which was already tormented … a tear formed, just wide enough to allow a single Man … or Elf to pass through. The rift itself might not have been such a calamity, if treated with Vairë's darning skills, except the little problem of where it led from … and to.

Far, far away, across waters so wide and treacherous that few ships could cross them, a pair of grey eyes gazed into the sudden rent and lit up for the first time in centuries. This was his chance to take back what he had lost…

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Elrond lent his back against the tree and sighed, running his fingers through Celebrían's silver hair. Something was in the air … something for which he had no name.

"Do you think that Thranduilion has already found a way to transport more of those girls here?" he asked.

"Probably. But let us not think of that tonight." His wife lent in to kiss him.

"You are right." He smiled against her lips. "I can think of many better things to do with my time."

His arms went round her, pulling her into his lap, preparing to explore all the possibilities.

A wailing shriek came from the skies, like that of the Nazgûl, but lower and, if possible, angrier. A shape plummeted from the heavens and hit the roof of the house with a resounding crash and the sound of splintering wood.

"What in the name of all the Valar was that?" Elrond jumped to his feet and began to storm towards the house with Celebrían beside him, both of them extremely annoyed at being interrupted. He half expected to find a dead body when he entered the main hall, but instead he saw a tall figure sitting upright on the table, rubbing at his head with hands which were weathered by the winds of the void.

"Eärendil?"

"Oh hello, son, can you help me outside so that I can have a look at Vingelot?" The Elf absent-mindedly picked fragments of roofing tile from his braids, looking no more astounded at this meeting than if he had been his offspring to a thrice-weekly chess game for the last millenium.

"Of course." The Peredhel dragged his sire to his feet and began to dust him off before a sudden thought arrested him.

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you not in Vingelot?"

"You will soon see," the Mariner answered grimly.

And soon Elrond did see. Gil-Estel was darting wildly round the sky. Studying it closely, they could see that its gyrations spelt out, "Ha ha. I won."

"'Tis Fëanor," Eärendil explained. "I know not how he came to be on my ship, but suddenly there he was, and the next thing I knew, I was experiencing just what a long way above the ground the stars are, and quite why Elves are not meant to fly … whatever your mother may say on the subject. Now, how in Arda do I get back?"

"You might ask Círdan very nicely," Celebrían quipped, evidently finding the whole situation remarkably amusing.

Just as he was staring contemplatively up at the bobbing light, it began to fall, faster and faster. In a flash, another body crushed the Mariner. One flailing arm held up a light so bright that the crowd of Elves, Men, Hobbits and fangirls who had begun to gather were dazzled.

"Who is that, Ada?" Elladan inquired.

"Well, the one underneath is your grandfather and I believe that we must also welcome Fëanor to Imladris, much though the idea repels me."

"Why is Lord Celeborn wrestling the kinslayer? I thought he was counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster, and pretending that you do not exist."

"I meant your other grandfather."

The twins' eyes became round with shock, just as Fëanor managed to disentangle himself from the Mariner and jump upright.

"It is mine, mine, do you hear me?" he shouted triumphantly and began to dart away into the woods.

"You idiot, you are doing it again!" Maglor exploded, stepping out of the crowd and moved to block his father's escape. "Do you think we wanted to leave Valinor? But it was all Atar wants this and Atar wants that, and Atar likes shiny things … Could you not have made do with one of mother's necklaces? But that would never be enough and we had to follow you. I do not even like the Silmarils, yet I find myself looking at even the chandeliers longingly. Well now enough is enough. You will come with me and I will show what you can do with your precious bloody lump of rock."

Fëanor stood still, amazed.

"But, Makalaure, you said that you liked them."

"At that point I would have done anything to get you to shut up about the wretched things."

As father and son stared at each other, Elrond felt his blood chill and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Glancing over at Celebrían, he could see that she seemed to be suffering the same sort of discomfort. Only Eärendil, rising to his feet and swaying slightly, seemed unaffected.

There was a boom, like thunder on the hottest days of summer, and a cowled figure appeared before them. Incidentally, he appeared on top of Legolas, squashing the princeling to the ground.

"Through what folly do you think you can escape your doom, son of Finwë?" the Vala boomed. "You have been told more than once that you are not allowed days out in Tirion and that it is not acceptable to try to bite Fingon's son, yet now I find you here in the Outer Lands. Oh, just stop squirming for a moment, you Sindar wretch, and wait until I have finished." The last words were addressed to Legolas, who was trying to crawl out from under his mighty feet.

"Are you Sauron?" Jemilamoina asked.

"Do not compare me to that neurotic little idiot," he snapped. "I am Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar, one of the Powers who guide this little world, and I am higher and more terrible than you can possibly imagine."

"Sort of like maths exams then?"

While Námo was busy glaring at her in a way which could melt rock, Fëanor slipped away, with Maglor and Eärendil in pursuit.

"Where has the boy gone? I blame it all on Vairë. If she had been a little quicker with the repair kit, the breech in my Halls would not have been such a problem. As it is, I have to chase the brat all over Arda, and Oromë is too busy hunting deer to help me. Would it be so much to ask that the fear of the dead stay where I have put them?"

And he was gone.

Legolas picked his face out of the mud.

"Am I safe yet?"

"Not if we get a say in the matter," Boromir said, wondering if he would be free from the girls if Legolas – just by accident, of course – was washed to the sea.

"Leave him alone, you great big bully," they chorused. "We all know what you want."

The Son of Gondor gave up all hope and nudged Elladan in the side.

"Would you know where to find the wine stores?"

"More?" the Peredhel appeared amused, but slapped the Man on the back and he and his twin led him to their secret stash.

After only a few minutes, Mandos returned with three Elves in tow, all looking very much the worse for wear. While it was possible to distinguish Fëanor due to his slight translucence, there was no telling the difference between Eärendil and Maglor, smeared as they both were with sticky mud and tree sap.

"Father?"

"Yes?" the pair of living Elves answered in unison.

"I meant my real father."

"Yes?"

The Doomsman took pity on the Peredhel and shoved one of the Elves forward. "This one is Eärendil. However…" He dragged the muddied Mariner back by the scruff of his neck, and shoving the Silmaril into his hand. "…He cannot stay as he has much to do this night. Hope does not manifest itself on its own, you know. Here is Maglor. Make sure he does not do anything stupid."

And with that, there was a blinding flash of light, and the three disappeared.

A voice lingered in the wind.

"You, Fëanor, will be cleaning up the mess you made in the Halls. And as for you, Eärendil, I would not like to see your wife's face when she realises what you have done to your clothes."

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