Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. I don't even own Jon. All I own is . . . *looks at stuff she owns* a book.
A/N: Here we go again. This is a parody, designed to teach. If your story uses one or more of these plot devices (suicide as a transport to Middle Earth, mysterious destinies, characters with pointed ears finding out they are elves, adding a new character to the Fellowship, making said character refuse the Ring, making said character extremely handsome, etc.), I suggest that you either A). Find a beta, or B). Get a new beta. That's it.
With that said, enjoy the story. *Cough* If such a thing is possible.
Jon's life sucked. That much was clear. Made fun of by the other kids at school for his height (he was abnormally tall), for his freakishly pointed ears (a birth defect), his lovely singing voice (it wasn't his fault that he liked singing!), and his love for Thoreau, there was nothing he could look forward to. It was because of being different that Jon decided something needed to be done. An important something, that would make people both remember and pity him. He decided on suicide.
His internet pal, name WfR, tried to get him not to do it. "Don't kill yourself, Jon - it will be okay!" she shrieked at him over livejournal.
It touched Jon that his internet pal cared about him enough to get him not to commit suicide, but it was too late. By the time he received WfR's comment on his livejournal post, he had already slit his wrists, using a piece of paper to do the deed.
"It's too late," Jon wrote back, blood threatening to short out the keyboard. "I'm already dead."
When Jon awoke, it was in a different place that he did not recognize, somewhere bright and white. "Ah, no," thought Jon. "My plan failed! I'm not dead - I'm in the hospital! Next time I'll remember - never slit your wrists with a piece of paper. It just doesn't work!"
Jon sat up, and, groggy, looked around. The first thing that he noticed was that his wrists, instead of being scarred or even scabbed over were completely healed - almost as if he had never cut them! This excited Jon very much, as he thought his wrists were among his better features. After all, without them, he couldn't do the sword fighting he so loved.
"Wait a second," thought Jon, confused. "Why do I love sword fighting when I've never done it before in my life?"
Jon did not have much time to dwell on this, however, for at just that moment, a beautful woman walked into his room. It was then that Jon realized where he was, and what his true heritage was.
"Welcome to Rivendell, Master Dimtil," said Arwen in a breathy voice. "Have you returned now, at the turning of the tide, to claim your heritage and your promised bride?"
For a moment, Jon was confused. Who was this Dimthil person she was talking about? Then it dawned on him. He was Dimthil, Dimthil the Elven Warrior, love of Arwen Evenstar, and rival to Aragorn, the only one who could stand the pull of the One Ring. He was in Middle Earth - he had returned!
"Arwen," replied Jon, in just as breathy a voice. "Where is Elrond, for I much desire to speak with him."
Arwen, smiling, led him to the small courtyard where a council was being held. The Council of Elrond.
Clutching his library copy of Thoreau (strange how it had mysteriously arrived in Middle Earth along with him), Jon greeted those present in a booming voice.
"Hello, and welcome, friends of old, hobbits, men." He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on those few dwarves present. "Midgets. I am Dimthil, son of Lintecarka, rightful king of the united kingdoms of Mirkwood and Lorien, and love to Arwen Undomiel."
A tall elf stood. "Dimthil! You have returned, and just in time. You will carry the Ring, and save us from the doom that is nigh upon us!"
"Nay, friend Legolas," said Dimthil, his voice sorrowful. "I cannot tear so precious a thing from the hobbit that carries it. Frodo shall take the Ring, and I shall merely accompany him on his quest."
Legolas nodded, appeased, and said, "So it shall be."
Dimthil turned to Frodo. "You have my bow, ax, and sword."
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, each who had been planning to join, stepped behind him silently. As for Boromir, he was left behind. Because, as Dimthil said,
"Nine walkers is enough, don't you think?"
And so it began, the quest to destroy the Ring.
They set out from Rivendell the very next day, intent on making their way to Mordor, lead by Dimthil. They were not far into their journey when trouble struck. Gimli and the hobbits became tired, and knew that there was no way they could go on.
"Take the Ring, Master Dimthil," said the Ring bearer. "I am weary, and can carry it no longer. You must take it."
"No," said Dimthil boldly. "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry it with you!"
He then proceeded to pick up Frodo and the Ring, and carry them the rest of the way, leaving the rest of the Fellowship in the dust.
Weeks passed. The Fellowship attempted to cross Carahras, only to be waylaid by the mountain itself. With the pass south unavailable to them, there was only one way out. They had to go through Moria.
From the beginning, Dimthil was against going through Moria. After all, he alone knew what was lurking in the shadows of the mine. He'd been through the mines once before, before he'd been banished from Middle Earth forever by the Dark Lord only to come back to fulfill his destiny. So it made sense that he wouldn't want to go through them. Dimthil did everything he could to prevent the Company from passing through the mines, including but not limited to torturing Gimli endlessly about his height and refusing to give the password into the mines even when Gandalf asked for it. It didn't matter though. In the end, Dimthil gave up the password, and they entered the Mine.
But not before Dimthil used his ax, sword, and bow to kill the Watcher in the Water.
The mines were dark, and deep, easy to get lost in. Fortunately, there was no need to fear, for Dimthil's sharp eyes could see in the dark, and with his keen mind he remembered where to turn when the time came, that they might not stray off their chosen path. Indeed, days later, even while being attacked by Orcs and carrying a sobbing midget under his arm, he was still able to keep them on the right path. In fact, it wasn't till the Balrog appeared that Dimthil even thought of panicking.
It came upon them while crossing the Bridge. Dimthil, who did not expect it to come upon them until much later, panicked momentarily, and almost dropped the short hairy guy under his arm, only to draw upon that secret inner strength he possessed, and stand up straighter before calling out,
"You shall not pass! I am a lover of Thoreau, a believer in logic. Your chaos does not scare me! You shall not pass!"
With that, he put down Gimli, took a seat upon the bridge, and, ignoring the sounds of hte battle surrounding him, began to read out of his library copy of Thoreau. He had only come to page ten of Walden when the Balrog, unable to stand such concise language, let out a groan and fell to the bottom of the chasm, landing with a thud and a snap, for it had ultimately broken its neck.
Dimthil stood up and dusted off his hands. "All in a day's work," he could be heard to say, before grabbing a still-sobbing short dude and leading the company the rest of the way over the bridge.
Under the instruction of Dimthil, the Company reached the borders of Lothlorien by dusk, and were taken to Cerin Amroth quicker than quick, for Haldir, the border guard, had known Dimthil since he was an child, and knew him to be the rightful heir to the throne of Lothlorien.
Before anyone could say, Yrch, they were taken before Galadriel and Celeborn.
"Dimthil," Galadriel greeted him. "You appear before us again, as handsome as ever."
Indeed, this was true. Tall, even for one of the elves, with dark brown hair, mysterious brown eyes, and chiseled features, Dimthil was ruggedly handsome, and deserving of the love of Galadriel's granddaughter, Arwen.
"Yes," he said, his every word a gift to the ears of his listeners. "I have returned to you now, at the turning of the tide, now, when the ultimate evil has been found, and one of the youngest of Middle Earth bears it."
"I know of which you speak," said Galadriel, "for it is heavy in my mind too. Come - let us take council here now, the Nine and the Lady."
"My companions are weary," said Dimthil kindly, "and I do not think they would like to hear what council you would give, Galadriel."
"Very well," said Galadriel. "Our council will be held after the celebration."
"What celebration," asked Dimthil, slipping back into Jon mode.
"Why, the party we're holding for your return!" exclaimed Galadriel.
"Oh, all right," said Dimthil dimly. "Then let us depart!"
The celebration was great - Jon had to admit that much. After all, it wasn't every day that you got to see a bunch of elves get sloshed and party until dawn - especially not when they were elves you knew and admired, such as Galadriel and Celeborn. Especially when it didn't seem likely that elves could get sloshed. At any rate, it was interesting to see Galadriel stand on a table and dance.
The Council held the next morning, however, was not nearly as fun. The matter of what to be done was upon them, and as none of them could think straight (being too hung over to think at all), they had accomplished nothing. Things went on in this vein for quite some time, until it was kindly suggested by Galadriel that Dimthil and the rest of the Company leave Lothlorien, as it seemed that no one seemed able to get any work done with Dimthil around. It was with sad heart that Dimthil and Company left. But not so sad that Dimthil didn't snigger at Legolas being stuck in a boat with Gimli.
Ere much time had passed, the company found themselves at the Falls, and having to decide where to go next. It was obvious, of course, that they should go through Emyn Muil, but it was in this obviousness that Dimthil felt they would be too easily found out.
"We'll go through Rohan," he decided, "and into Gondor. From there we can march to the Black Gate."
Because Dimthil's logic was flawless, it was this plan they followed.
A/N: Here we go again. This is a parody, designed to teach. If your story uses one or more of these plot devices (suicide as a transport to Middle Earth, mysterious destinies, characters with pointed ears finding out they are elves, adding a new character to the Fellowship, making said character refuse the Ring, making said character extremely handsome, etc.), I suggest that you either A). Find a beta, or B). Get a new beta. That's it.
With that said, enjoy the story. *Cough* If such a thing is possible.
Jon's life sucked. That much was clear. Made fun of by the other kids at school for his height (he was abnormally tall), for his freakishly pointed ears (a birth defect), his lovely singing voice (it wasn't his fault that he liked singing!), and his love for Thoreau, there was nothing he could look forward to. It was because of being different that Jon decided something needed to be done. An important something, that would make people both remember and pity him. He decided on suicide.
His internet pal, name WfR, tried to get him not to do it. "Don't kill yourself, Jon - it will be okay!" she shrieked at him over livejournal.
It touched Jon that his internet pal cared about him enough to get him not to commit suicide, but it was too late. By the time he received WfR's comment on his livejournal post, he had already slit his wrists, using a piece of paper to do the deed.
"It's too late," Jon wrote back, blood threatening to short out the keyboard. "I'm already dead."
When Jon awoke, it was in a different place that he did not recognize, somewhere bright and white. "Ah, no," thought Jon. "My plan failed! I'm not dead - I'm in the hospital! Next time I'll remember - never slit your wrists with a piece of paper. It just doesn't work!"
Jon sat up, and, groggy, looked around. The first thing that he noticed was that his wrists, instead of being scarred or even scabbed over were completely healed - almost as if he had never cut them! This excited Jon very much, as he thought his wrists were among his better features. After all, without them, he couldn't do the sword fighting he so loved.
"Wait a second," thought Jon, confused. "Why do I love sword fighting when I've never done it before in my life?"
Jon did not have much time to dwell on this, however, for at just that moment, a beautful woman walked into his room. It was then that Jon realized where he was, and what his true heritage was.
"Welcome to Rivendell, Master Dimtil," said Arwen in a breathy voice. "Have you returned now, at the turning of the tide, to claim your heritage and your promised bride?"
For a moment, Jon was confused. Who was this Dimthil person she was talking about? Then it dawned on him. He was Dimthil, Dimthil the Elven Warrior, love of Arwen Evenstar, and rival to Aragorn, the only one who could stand the pull of the One Ring. He was in Middle Earth - he had returned!
"Arwen," replied Jon, in just as breathy a voice. "Where is Elrond, for I much desire to speak with him."
Arwen, smiling, led him to the small courtyard where a council was being held. The Council of Elrond.
Clutching his library copy of Thoreau (strange how it had mysteriously arrived in Middle Earth along with him), Jon greeted those present in a booming voice.
"Hello, and welcome, friends of old, hobbits, men." He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on those few dwarves present. "Midgets. I am Dimthil, son of Lintecarka, rightful king of the united kingdoms of Mirkwood and Lorien, and love to Arwen Undomiel."
A tall elf stood. "Dimthil! You have returned, and just in time. You will carry the Ring, and save us from the doom that is nigh upon us!"
"Nay, friend Legolas," said Dimthil, his voice sorrowful. "I cannot tear so precious a thing from the hobbit that carries it. Frodo shall take the Ring, and I shall merely accompany him on his quest."
Legolas nodded, appeased, and said, "So it shall be."
Dimthil turned to Frodo. "You have my bow, ax, and sword."
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, each who had been planning to join, stepped behind him silently. As for Boromir, he was left behind. Because, as Dimthil said,
"Nine walkers is enough, don't you think?"
And so it began, the quest to destroy the Ring.
They set out from Rivendell the very next day, intent on making their way to Mordor, lead by Dimthil. They were not far into their journey when trouble struck. Gimli and the hobbits became tired, and knew that there was no way they could go on.
"Take the Ring, Master Dimthil," said the Ring bearer. "I am weary, and can carry it no longer. You must take it."
"No," said Dimthil boldly. "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry it with you!"
He then proceeded to pick up Frodo and the Ring, and carry them the rest of the way, leaving the rest of the Fellowship in the dust.
Weeks passed. The Fellowship attempted to cross Carahras, only to be waylaid by the mountain itself. With the pass south unavailable to them, there was only one way out. They had to go through Moria.
From the beginning, Dimthil was against going through Moria. After all, he alone knew what was lurking in the shadows of the mine. He'd been through the mines once before, before he'd been banished from Middle Earth forever by the Dark Lord only to come back to fulfill his destiny. So it made sense that he wouldn't want to go through them. Dimthil did everything he could to prevent the Company from passing through the mines, including but not limited to torturing Gimli endlessly about his height and refusing to give the password into the mines even when Gandalf asked for it. It didn't matter though. In the end, Dimthil gave up the password, and they entered the Mine.
But not before Dimthil used his ax, sword, and bow to kill the Watcher in the Water.
The mines were dark, and deep, easy to get lost in. Fortunately, there was no need to fear, for Dimthil's sharp eyes could see in the dark, and with his keen mind he remembered where to turn when the time came, that they might not stray off their chosen path. Indeed, days later, even while being attacked by Orcs and carrying a sobbing midget under his arm, he was still able to keep them on the right path. In fact, it wasn't till the Balrog appeared that Dimthil even thought of panicking.
It came upon them while crossing the Bridge. Dimthil, who did not expect it to come upon them until much later, panicked momentarily, and almost dropped the short hairy guy under his arm, only to draw upon that secret inner strength he possessed, and stand up straighter before calling out,
"You shall not pass! I am a lover of Thoreau, a believer in logic. Your chaos does not scare me! You shall not pass!"
With that, he put down Gimli, took a seat upon the bridge, and, ignoring the sounds of hte battle surrounding him, began to read out of his library copy of Thoreau. He had only come to page ten of Walden when the Balrog, unable to stand such concise language, let out a groan and fell to the bottom of the chasm, landing with a thud and a snap, for it had ultimately broken its neck.
Dimthil stood up and dusted off his hands. "All in a day's work," he could be heard to say, before grabbing a still-sobbing short dude and leading the company the rest of the way over the bridge.
Under the instruction of Dimthil, the Company reached the borders of Lothlorien by dusk, and were taken to Cerin Amroth quicker than quick, for Haldir, the border guard, had known Dimthil since he was an child, and knew him to be the rightful heir to the throne of Lothlorien.
Before anyone could say, Yrch, they were taken before Galadriel and Celeborn.
"Dimthil," Galadriel greeted him. "You appear before us again, as handsome as ever."
Indeed, this was true. Tall, even for one of the elves, with dark brown hair, mysterious brown eyes, and chiseled features, Dimthil was ruggedly handsome, and deserving of the love of Galadriel's granddaughter, Arwen.
"Yes," he said, his every word a gift to the ears of his listeners. "I have returned to you now, at the turning of the tide, now, when the ultimate evil has been found, and one of the youngest of Middle Earth bears it."
"I know of which you speak," said Galadriel, "for it is heavy in my mind too. Come - let us take council here now, the Nine and the Lady."
"My companions are weary," said Dimthil kindly, "and I do not think they would like to hear what council you would give, Galadriel."
"Very well," said Galadriel. "Our council will be held after the celebration."
"What celebration," asked Dimthil, slipping back into Jon mode.
"Why, the party we're holding for your return!" exclaimed Galadriel.
"Oh, all right," said Dimthil dimly. "Then let us depart!"
The celebration was great - Jon had to admit that much. After all, it wasn't every day that you got to see a bunch of elves get sloshed and party until dawn - especially not when they were elves you knew and admired, such as Galadriel and Celeborn. Especially when it didn't seem likely that elves could get sloshed. At any rate, it was interesting to see Galadriel stand on a table and dance.
The Council held the next morning, however, was not nearly as fun. The matter of what to be done was upon them, and as none of them could think straight (being too hung over to think at all), they had accomplished nothing. Things went on in this vein for quite some time, until it was kindly suggested by Galadriel that Dimthil and the rest of the Company leave Lothlorien, as it seemed that no one seemed able to get any work done with Dimthil around. It was with sad heart that Dimthil and Company left. But not so sad that Dimthil didn't snigger at Legolas being stuck in a boat with Gimli.
Ere much time had passed, the company found themselves at the Falls, and having to decide where to go next. It was obvious, of course, that they should go through Emyn Muil, but it was in this obviousness that Dimthil felt they would be too easily found out.
"We'll go through Rohan," he decided, "and into Gondor. From there we can march to the Black Gate."
Because Dimthil's logic was flawless, it was this plan they followed.
