Siege Mentality

Chapter Fifteen

Ice cream with many, many toppings to all reviewers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Glorfindel and Erestor came running at the disturbance, and Celebrían pulled the sheet rather hurriedly over herself.  Elrond noticed with distracted bemusement that his advisor looked more than a little disheveled, and his seneschal was grinning like a Hobbit who had just discovered a mushroom farm.

"We heard a crash and wondered if your father-in-law was trying to murder you again.  If you wish us to leave, mellon iaur…"

"Nay.  No time."  The elf-lord hopped from the bed only belatedly realising that he was wearing nothing very much at all.  With a scowl which forbade any lewd remarks about the amount of time he had spent in his chambers in the last half millenium – and it had been considerable – he shrugged himself into a gown.  "The Ring…"

"Vilya?  But surely you are wearing it, my lord."  Erestor was definitely a few Valier short of a booze-up in Almaren today.

"Not Vilya.  The Ring.  The One.  That mad Maia's nasty little trinket," he hissed.  "And do not speak of the Three."

"What of the One?" Glorfindel asked mildly.  "Has the Ringbearer lost it to one of those unpleasant girls in a poker game?"

"We forgot about it.  It should have been on its way to Mordor with the year's turning, and yet it is still here."

Unfortunately, the din had roused Celeborn from his latest round of bait-the-Kinslayer.  Maglor, clutching his bleeding forearm, staggered into the room after him.  And, if looks could kill, the peredhil lord would have been six feet under with a tasteful marble monument over his head.

"You … you … you have ravished my daughter, you knave," he howled and threw himself at his son-in-law's ankles.  Elrond sidestepped, tripped over his discarded boots, and fell … straight into Celebrían's arms.

//Oh dear Eru//

//You did not wish to ravish me?// she teased.

//Yes.  But I would rather do so when there is a mountain range and an impassable gale between your father and myself//

"Up you get."  She shoved him to his feet and pulled the sheet tighter around herself – which was just as well, as at that moment the room was suddenly invaded by four rather intoxicated Hobbits, one half-dressed Sindar archer and a pack of fangirls, at least one of who claimed to be half-unicorn, as evidenced by the horn sprouting through her tufty black hair.  All of them glowed – unpleasantly reminiscent of the Silmarils crossed with a hormonal supernova.  Poor Maglor looked overwhelmed, and curled up in the corner, wailing that he should have known better than to follow anyone who ironed his socks, even if that individual did happen to be his father.

"Out!  Out!  Everyone out now before I find where Elladan last left Aeglos, when he was trying to work out if he could use it as a hammer."  He sank down on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.  "And you, Makalaurë Fëanaró."

"Are you sure?  Might not your wife have inherited the Sindar tendency to lunacy?" the Noldo inquired, uncurling from his hedgehog-like ball.

"If you remember, the blood of Elu Thingol flows in my veins.  And she is the only creature in Imladris from whom I do not need protecting at this moment," Elrond muttered sourly.

As she watched the last surviving son of the Spirit of Fire scuttle from the room like a large, angsty beetle, Celebrían pressed a kiss to the tip of her husband's ear.

"Are you certain that you do not need protecting from me, melethron-nîn?" she whispered.  "Are you not afraid that I might ravish you?"

"N … aaaah…" She had slipped her hands inside his loose gown and skimmed her hands tenderly over the skin of his torso, her mouth resuming its attentions to his ear.  "Yes."  He pushed her away regretfully.  "Not now, melethril.  The Ring…"

He hopped around the room on one foot, pulling on garments at random, until he was dressed as befitted his station.  Celebrían slipped her simple gown over her head, and he helped her with its fastenings, trying rather unsuccessfully to concentrate on the declensions of Quenya nouns and the correct method of constructing a functioning siege-engine with only a small piece of string, a half-chewed piece of dwarf bread and a child's spinning top. 

Catching her hand in his, he hurried through the corridors to the council chamber.

~*~

"But can we not use it against the Enemy?" Boromir declaimed passionately.  "It is a gift to us…"

The fangirls cast him spiteful looks which would have had Tulkas cowering in a corner, and Morgoth wishing that the Void was just a little further away.

His brother, however, appeared thoughtful, although that could have had something to do with Éowyn's hand clasped firmly between both his own.  The shield-maiden of the Riddermark leant her head on his shoulder and sighed happily.

Elladan and Elrohir swung their legs and shuddered convulsively whenever the fangirls looked their way.

Maglor had crept a little closer to the Ring, and was tapping it, muttering about inferior craftsmanship and the need for really good alloys when forging creations which would have all the world and their pack of orcs up in arms.

"You cannot wield it.  None of us can," Aragorn called from the archway.  "Mae govannen, ada; have we missed anything of importance?"

Arwen stood at his side, flushed, with a few twigs still clinging to her black hair.

Elrond looked up from his perch on the floor – all the other seats were taken, and he refused to use his own chair after its misuse earlier that day – and scowled.

"A little bickering," he sighed.

Unnoticed, Boromir had paced across the room.  He reached for the Ring, and stepped on Maglor's hair in the process.  Therein lay his mistake.  The kinslayer howled, and headbutted him in the kneecaps.

"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh bruzum-ishi krimpatul…" Gandalf boomed, and the sky darkened ominously.  Sarai looked around to see where the flock of birds was.

"Elrond."  Celebrían poked him in the ribs.

"Yes, hervess-nîn?"

"Are you sure that the House can take this strain?"

"Never before have the words of that speech been uttered here in Imladris."  He pulled himself sternly upright, fully an elf-lord of noble blood, and tried to ignore Asjsknksflia proclaiming that she knew exactly the counter-curse to the Black Tongue.

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  And I could no more stand Maglor's caterwauling – call youself a minstrel? – than I could stand Aulë's attempts to woo Yavanna by standing underneath her balcony and singing the Ballad of the Nine Blind Hedgehog Maidens and their Little Anvils."

Elrond breathed deeply to quell his exasperation, and soldiered on.

"The Ring must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fires from whence it came."

And all hell broke loose, as it had when the keys to the storerooms had accidentally fallen into Merry and Pippin's hands, just before Aurora had wished to make a mushroom poultice for some rather interesting rope burns she had acquired on portions of her anatomy which shall – thankfully – remain nameless. 

"I shall be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf."

"That could be arranged." Grief does strange things to us, and Celeborn had conveniently forgotten that many a time he could have cheerfully have chopped Elu Thingol's head off himself.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor, although I do not know the way," Frodo spoke up, his eerie eyes wide.

"You are the Ringbearer," Elrohir pointed out.

"Oh yes."

"If by my life or my death, I can protect you, I will."

"Where he goes, I go."  Arwen looked rather cheerful at the prospect of secluded nooks in the Misty Mountains.

"You have my bow."

"Must we really?" Elrond asked.

"And my axe."  It was buried deeply in a chair arm, but it could probably be pulled out – with a strong team of horses.

"You have my magic.  Dumbledore sent me for this task," the earlier arrival piped up, much to the confusion of all and sundry.

"And my…"

"And my…"

"Hey, mister Frodo is not going anywhere without me…"

"Wait for us…"

"And my combat skills…"

"And my special enchanted Cheerios."

"And the Eaglestone of Ardour…"

"Oh no, atar is not at it again, is he?" Maglor moaned.  "We told him … well Caranthir and Celegorm were too busy pulling the wings off insects … but the rest of us told him that his skills would be better employed in making a gift for atara, but would he listen?  Of course not.  Mad as a box of Balrogs."

"I bring to ye olde Fellowshipe my talent in speaking to animals," Turquoise Sapphire put in, flicking her green hair out of her mauve eyes and retouching her lipgloss.  "Come here little birdie, and tell me what nasty, nasty Mr. Sauron is doing now."

The bird cocked its head on one side and began to chirrup at her, despite its underlying conviction that it should be somewhere else, preferably eating worms instead of talking to this lunatic manling who really needed to dye her hair a normal colour.

"Oh really … ooh, that is wicked…"

"What in the name of all things that should remain unnamed are you doing, sparrow?"  There was a sudden gust of wind, and Faramir of Gondor decided that it would be prudent to sit very still, and look into his Rohirric love's eyes – as he was doing that anyway.

The sparrow looked as awkward as it is possible for a sparrow to look, and tried to sneak off, but the fangirl's hand restrained him.  While she was petting him like he was a very small dog – of the yappy, ankle-biting kind - he knew precisely what was about to happen…

The whirlwind resolved itself into a towering figure, cloaked in majesty and terrible in kindness.

"Come here."

The sparrow hopped onto his shoulder.

The Lord of the Breath of Arda stroked its ruffled feathers vaguely.

"And who are you who dares to command the birds of the air?"

All the others were bowing deeply, but she did not seem to notice.

"I am Turquoise Sapphire…"

"No you are not."  He cut her off sharply.  "You are Jane Brown of Iowa, but be that as it may.  You do not and cannot call the birds of any world to do your bidding, much less to listen to your inane ramblings.  I suggest that you do not try.  And you, my little feathered friend, you will spend the rest of your days being watered profusely with Nienna's endless wretched tears.  Excuse me: I must return: Varda is calling to me.  But first, Peredhil, be careful of your choices.  The road is long."

And he was gone, faint words wafting back on the wind, something about melted chocolate and strawberries which made the assembled mass cringe.

"Well."  Elrond helped Celebrían to her feet, and dusted his own knees off.  "I think that this proves that Mistress Sea-Green-Blue-With-Yellow-Polka-Dots…"

"Turquoise Sapphire."

"…Can be of no use to the Fellowship."

"I'm going anyway."

"And me."

"And me."

"And me."

"Does all of Arda wish to go?"

"All of Arda and their pet frog," Glorfindel said with a laugh.

"Then if the Fellowship is to be so swelled in ranks, there is no help to be found in stealth, and we must rely on force of arms alone."  He paused, bracing himself for what came next.  "And I shall go with you."

"Will you leave me here?" Celebrían looked decidedly displeased.

"If you would…"

"Do you not remember that night in Mordor, my love?" She leant close and kissed him softly, much to the horror of the fangirls.

"I shall find you a sword."

"You will need support if you are to travel with this troop of hooligans."  Glorfindel was at his shoulder, his face unusually grave.  "And Erestor will come, of course."

The advisor made no demur.

The younger lords of Imladris perked up somewhat.  It had to be better than listening to Lindir bewail the fate of his storerooms for the coming months.  And there were always orcs…

"I shall travel with you, ion-nîn."  Maglor dragged himself on the floor.  "I can no longer wield a blade, but I can always headbutt evildoers for you.  And I have aeons of experience of bloodshed."

"And always the wrong blood," Celeborn sniped.

"You are coming with us, Adar.  Maybe Ammë will be able to keep you in Lothlórien this time," the Lady of Imladris added in a dark whisper.

"Nine Riders and … oh, Mandos knows, however many Walkers.  So be it.  We shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

Denethor finally chewed through his bindings and rushed into the chamber.

"I am coming with you.  Long nights in the Redhorn Pass … we will need barbecues…"

Faramir looked decidedly frightened.

~*~

So much later that night that the first hue of dawn was brightening the horizon, Peony sneaked into the chambers of the Master of Rivendell.  One night of passion, she decided, one night of fangirl-loving before the darkness overtook them…

A long, Ithil-silvered arm reached out from under the covers and flung her casually throîugh the window, where she landed on the head of Legolas' latest bit of skirt.

"Now; where were we, meleth-nîn?" Elrond pulled his wife closer to himself, toying with her hair.

"Before I disposed of the intruder?"

"Before that.  I believe that we were enjoying our last night in a proper bed…"

And the rest was silence – of at least as far as the chronicles tell.  But the chronicles usually lie, so there was probably not much in the way of silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A/N: I apologise if the Black Speech is not spelt in the normal way.  I had to use a French edition as I could not find my English version.

Nice blue button.  Pretty blue button.  Revenge is sweeter when it's shared.