Disclaimer: His, not mine.
A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates. And don't mind the mangling of Quenya that goes on below.
*
Feanor was sitting in a recluse corner of a recluse area of a recluse district in a more recluse part of the outskirts of one of the most recluse of communities in Valinor. He was absently testing his fingers, methodically picking up a stick, throwing it at Maglor, catching the stick as his annoyed son threw it back at him and repeating the process. Maedhros was waving his right hand about ecstatically, happily babbling to anyone who would listen that he had a right hand. Celegorm, ever the "fair" one, was preening himself. Caranthir just sat in a corner in sulked while Amrod and Amras poking stones over a map of Valinor. Curufin was plotting on how to sabotage a ship to ship them off to Ennor.
A very dangerous group, but at the same time rather loony. Feanor was wearing a stack of large leaves over his eyes to shield them from the sun while Maedhros had rolled up his sleeves to show off his newly regained anatomy. Maglor was practising scales in A-minor, sending chills down everyone's backs while Amrod and Amras were eerily imitating each other's movements. Curufin wore a maniacal look on his face and constantly muttered words like "Alqualonde" and "rubber duck" while Caranthir plaited rocks into his hair. Celegorm was trying to talk to a stray ant, asking it whether it would like to replace Huan. The ant bit him.
They were all dangerous. Just in rather odd ways. But definitely loony. All loony. Loony enough to being lusting after the Silmarils again.
*
The Company was resting as the stars flickered softly above them. Glorfindel idly watched Ren as he leant back against a boulder next to the fire. Ren, oblivious, was jabbing her abused paper again. The fact that the quill was sharp did not improve matters. They were approaching the Gap, and many of the company were faking light moods to avoid the fact that they were nearing Isengard. The journey brought them far too close to the prospect of Uruk Hai for comfort, but it was all that they could do to hope and pray that the Valar would have mercy on their tired, battered, very much half dead forms and allow them to live out what was left of their miserable existence.
Suddenly, Ren stabbed the paper so hard that the quill went through it and exclaimed,
'It's the DERIVED A-stem that changes into the -o prefix for the PRESENT TENSE!'
She paused, tilting her head slightly and frowning, glaring at her paper.
'Or was it the -ëa?'
Glorfindel offhandedly threw in a comment.
'The -ëa prefix for present tense is Quenya, Ren. And the -o prefix in Sindarin is for the infinitive. Present tense in the derived verb stays as -a.'
The elf had long given up using her "Elvish" name, due to the fact that it was not as easy to scream as the simpler, one syllable "Ren". Erestor rolled his eyes from his place next to Inez and drawled,
'Quenya, on the other hand, doesn't have an infinitive.'
Inez blinked. The conversation was beginning to turn into one of the old lectures her old English teacher gave her on the "present-perfect-plural-dual-elephant-tense", or something for the like. Prefix? Was that not the antonym for suffix? Or was it....? It was almost as bad as those, what was it again, "modal axularries'? Shaking her head, she muttered,
'Oh, shah.'
Inez lay down to do more productive things, namely sleep. Shu Wen had dropped off somewhere along the discussion about Verb Tenses in Quenya 101, and was now oblivious to the world around her. Haldir stared off into space, eyes vacant in sleep. Gildor edged nervously away from Sara. Ren just stared at her paper, puzzled. Quenya was so much harder when one had to follow grammatical rules.
'So the Sindarin infinitive verb tense is a -o while its present tense is a -a, its past tense being a -n --,'
Glorfindel and Erestor instinctively cut her short,
'-nt.'
'Being a -nt, but the Quenyan infinitive does not exist, its present tense being -a, past being -në?'
Glorfindel nodded, eyes closed, clearly answering reflexively. Erestor, ever the scholar, added on,
'Only in the derived A-stem, though.'
Ren stared for a moment, then crumpled her paper up and threw it, along with the quill, into the fire in front of her. She had formed a conclusion that she hated Sindarin/Quenya linguistics. She went to sleep while Diana tried in vain to fish her Sindarin notes out of the burning mass of wood.
The next day, they would cross Fangorn, and, with luck, they would approach the Gap of Rohan before a week passed. Of course, that was with luck, which seemed to favour the sunny side of Ered Luin rather than them. And Ered Luin was far, far away.
Glorfindel found himself slipping into reverie as Erestor droned on and on and ON about the A-stem, wondering how Elladan and Elrohir managed to survive their children tutoring lessons when he had been away. An hour with that rambling advisor was enough to make Glorfindel's skin was to curl and turn into a prune.
*
Ecthelion really wanted to just melt, die and evaporate at that point in time. Cirdan was poking him with a stick. And not just any normal stick. Cirdan was poking him with one of those sticks that can only appear on the most obscene of sea shores, where the tip is just about sharp enough to pierce mithril and the wood is hard enough to stick a chicken through. The stick was currently poking his side. Groaning with tremendous effort, the silver haired lord rolled over and opened his eyes. Ecthelion barely contained a shriek of pain as light lanced down through the back of his eyelids as he screwed them shut again. The Stick had, fortunately, stopped poking. Cirdan could be heard mumbling something before pulling him up and slicking back his hair, which has fell over his face.
'Ecthelion?'
'Unnhn.'
'Ecthelion, can you hear me?'
'Unnhn.'
'Ecthelion, wake up.'
'Givemea fewmoreminutes, Amme, saes...'
'Ecthelion.'
'Unnhn.'
Cirdan poked the lord with the Stick. Ecthelion yelped, suddenly very much awake. The teleri lord smirked, setting the evil branch down onto the sand, where it assumed the post of innocent driftwood. Ecthelion glared at it.
'Ecthelion, what are you doing here? You are meant to be dead.'
Ecthelion vaguely felt his lips moving to form a "I'd rather be dead at the moment, hannad le.", but he was too groggy and watered down to notice. It was all that he could do to lean on Cirdan and drag his dripping form back to the Havens.
*
Ecthelion sat on a chair, now in clean clothes, hair drying on a towel wrapped about his shoulders. Long fingers curled about a cup, attached to the blissful warmth that was slowly spreading across his body. Cirdan looked slightly perturbed at the story that Ecthelion had just relayed to him, finding it highly unlikely that the elf could have survived being tossed over seas. Ecthelion was too weary to care, and too tired to notice the shimmering presence that filled the room slowly.
A number of moments later, Manwe appeared in the room in all his glitter and gold. There was no nature to herald his presence in the house, but Ecthelion swore that he heard the clock tick somewhat louder. Arrogant vala. Cirdan jumped up and started bowing upon recognizing the lord. Ecthelion just sat on his chair, looking at his tea. Cirdan had added too much sugar, he noted. Looking up casually, he waved slightly in welcome.
'Hello.'
Manwe stared at him, but it was about effective as staring at a rock. Ecthelion nonchalantly blew on his tea. Cirdan would have to refine his tea making technique if he was to entertain any more guests than his rather empty house already contained. Looking up again, Ecthelion offered Manwe a breadstick from the table.
'What are you doing here, my lord?'
The Lord of Arda stared at the breadstick as if it were contaminated before cautiously taking it and biting. Ecthelion shrugged and resumed his study of tea leaves. Manwe, now more than slightly ruffled at the lack of response from his "loyal subject", answered the question haughtily.
'Ulmo, my brother, has asked me to commit a favour, to finish the second part of your journey.'
The cup nearly sloshed all its contents onto the floor as Ecthelion's hand shook. Face paling horribly, he stuttered,
'S.. second part?'
'They do not call me the Lord of Breath for nothing...'
One could probably have heard Ecthelion
scream from Hollin.