(A/N: First, I do not own any of the canonical species, characters, or locations. Second, I apologize for taking so long to update. This was my top fanfic priority after finishing Last of My Heart, but unfortunately the unpleasant realities of assigned reading and midterms reared their ugly heads and, for me, schoolwork always takes precedence over fanfic. This chapter is substantially longer than last, but I think that to some degree I've sacrificed quality for quantity, as the humorous bits are fewer in number and farther spread in this chapter. To attempt to remedy that, I elected to give Crowbait and TK the reviews and let them respond thereto, so if any are offended by what they say I apologize. And, as usual, I love reviews and plot bunny suggestions.)
To the Halls of Mandos in a Backpack
Chapter IV: (Expletives Deleted) and Swordplay of the Socially-Acceptable Kind
"Well, this seems to be going fairly well," Crowbait intoned.
"Going fairly well?!? Are you (frickin') crazy?" At the sound of the cursing, Theodosia King's cat ran back under the sofa. "Arwen and (sigh) Aragorn have arrived in Rivendell and we singularly failed in everything we wanted to do before they arrived."
"Well, that's true, but think about it. We have actually succeeded in posting something, and that's fairly impressive considering our combined track record."
"Yes, but our success is marred by the fact that what is posted bears little resemblance to what we wrote. Something is becoming very clear to me: people are disgruntled. The canon is fighting back."
"Eh, let it. They've said themselves that they can't kill us, and, as long as we remain alive, it's only a matter of time before we get the passionate, steamy-hot sex that we crave."
Theodosia rolled her eyes. Crowbait was so obsessed with having sex with Arwen that he was totally neglecting the more important element of love. Theodosia fantasized about talking with Aragorn, smiling at Aragorn, holding hands with Aragorn, snuggling with Aragorn. Though, in fairness, if she got only one thing out of this adventure, it would be having sex with Aragorn. Definitely.
Crowbait winced. Theodosia was getting that look on her face she always got when she paused to daydream about Aragorn. It was time to change the subject. "Anyway, we should get on with the review responses. We had seven reviews for this movement of our fanfiction symphony- a personal best! First, LOTRlover, I'm very glad that we made your day and I hope that we can continue to do so."
"Yes, and just for the record, I myself simply loved Anticipation and hope the kingmaker's comments about it neither offended nor discouraged you," Theodosia added. "Kimmaree, I'm glad that my dabbling in slash was appreciated. I usually do not write such things, but there are some whose sexuality simply cannot be denied. I seriously doubt my co-author's ability to get Arwen to switch teams."
Crowbait glared at her. "Doubt all you want, we'll see who has the last laugh. After all, I certainly know that Vienasar has far more success in this chapter than his sister. And check this out: Greetings from Mordor says that we are both entertaining and literate, the latter almost certainly being a result of my contributions. And what about makoto-47, who reminds us that it was not you who first conceived of the hideous Gandalf/Elrond pairing."
"Of course, she also says that this her favorite of our stories, which is odd considering that this is our only story, and thus leads me to question the veracity of other remarks by said reviewer. Oh, and Lady LeBeau, this is not intended as humor, subtle or otherwise, and I am most disturbed by the way you treat perfectly legitimate original characters in Here They Come. That is cruel and unusual."
"Not as unusual as you might think, Theodosia. And I, like the kingmaker, find that tale quite amusing. By the way, Miss LeBeau, if Krystal should become available I would be more than happy to take her out to dinner."
"Ah! Stop being unprofessional. You are not supposed to use the story to enhance your otherwise non-existent love life. Dragon-of-the-north, I do wish you wouldn't call our valiant heroes such derogatory nicknames. And, despite what oddities may be introduced by the Canonical Resistance Movement (CRM), neither of said heroes are in any way flawed (though Vienasar's eating habits do seem a bit tasteless)."
"Of course, so are your slash attempts, so you aren't in much of a position to be talking. And since the characters of her excellent Alagaith Chronicles are generally referred to by their nicknames and her and Tree's current great work, The Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse contains two derogatory nicknames, I would forgive her. Assuming these notes get posted, Dragon, you will see more of the story behind the story. Yes, there is some exchange of insults between us, but it is all in good fun. I, for one, wholeheartedly concur with your interpretation of the arguments of a slasher. And 'poor Elrond' is decidedly appropriate."
"Yes, especially when one considers that he will be your father-in-law fairly soon." Vienasar glared at her. "I can't speak to the mysterious contract of the Istari, but there were rumors at this time that Radagast's affinity for animals went beyond mere scientific curiosity and that Saruman was visiting Lurtz far more times than necessary, and it seems likely that Gandalf had perhaps heard these rumors."
Crowbait cringed. Theodosia had thought about these things far too much. "Moving on, I would just add that Dragon's assessment of slasher defense mechanisms is very accurate and sadly true, that I have no idea where the owl came from either (though it could be through the manipulations of a certain experimental fanwriter), and that Elrond is almost certainly worthy of any Middle-earth cussing contest. Lastly, TreeHugger, I'm glad to hear that I'm not the only writer delayed by such real life inconveniences. And, despite the bitchy predictions of Huchelda, Vienasar has indeed learned his lesson regarding that."
"Yeah right. As for women, Tree, we're only more catty when stupid men don't let everything go our way. I have no idea why Vienasar was thinking about Huchelda that way and can only assume that it must be part of the CRM. Though I must agree with you that Vienasar/Elladan would be far more pleasant than Vienasar/Arwen."
Crowbait shuddered and exerted all his will power not to slap her. "Your conceptions of what is pleasant unquestionably need a lot of work. As Tree puts it, 'Evil Female Spells' are indeed the root of all the vileness known as slash." He paused and flipped through the printed stack of reviews. "I think that about covers it. Much more of interest for the Vienasar fangirls in this chapter than in previous installments. He does, however, make reference to his own backstory, as told in such tales as One Good Elf and a Very Bad Man, Kill Orc, Volumes I-VIII, and Balrogs have Feelings Too!, which will hopefully be posted soon. Other than that, I believe that both of us hope that you enjoy the chapter."
Love is in the Air, Chapter 4- Practice Makes It Possible
Considering that both twins were superior healers, they probably should have been helping poor Frodo, but both were otherwise occupied. Vienasar, against his sister's advice, had sampled the cakes Gandalf had sent up after dinner, and was now passed out on the bed. He would have looked rather cute but for the contorted expression on his face and the moans issuing from his slightly open mouth.
Huchelda, on the other hand, could not stay and watch him, as she had something else to do. Aragorn was around somewhere... and now that Elrond and Gundelf were off seeing to Frodi, she had her best opportunity to track him down and... introduce herself.
He was making his way to his bedroom when she spotted him. Incidentally, it was the same bedroom in which he had slept as an orphan being raised in Rivendell. It was the same bed where he had cried himself to sleep, unwilling to let others see his tears for his dead mother. It was in that bed that he had had his first pubescent dream about a woman. In that bed he had spent countless nights pining for her, the black-haired elf woman destined to be his queen. As he opened the door, little did he know that she was standing down the hall from him. Her stomach gave a very pleasant and sensual flutter as she contemplated fulfilling those fantasies in the same place where he first experienced them.
Before Aragorn entered the room, he turned, noticing her for the first time. His face was weary and haggard; it had been a long time since he had slept comfortably. Huchelda moaned. It pained her to see her beloved aching so. It took all her willpower not to just run up to him, take him in her arms, and hold him tight until all the pain was gone.
But if she had learned one thing in the past two days, it was that she had to tread carefully. She could not rely solely on her magic and flawless good looks to get her way. She would have to attract him with her delightful personality. Not that it would be too difficult.
Aragorn was staring at her, though whether in puzzlement or attraction she could not tell. "Who are you, and what are you doing in Rivendell? No, nevermind, you're obviously here for the council. If you would forgive me, milady, but can whatever you want wait until morning? In addition to desperately needing sleep, my thinking has also become dangerously incoherent and I worry what I might forget if you told me why you were here now."
"I'm Huchelda of Nantaurea, and I just need to talk to you."
Upon hearing her name, Aragorn raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at her and then shrugged, yawned, and, with a muttered "In the morning," stepped into the room. The door slammed behind him just as she reached it.
Huchelda tried to open it, but it was locked and would not open to her magic. Cursing in disappointment and pain at the thought of being under the same roof as her love but not the same sheets, she made what was probably her wisest decision to this point: she admitted defeat and returned toward her room. Before she got there, however, she passed Arwen going to her own room. Huchelda was very tempted to say something mean or otherwise suggestive about her relationship with Aragorn, but something held her back. If she did that now, it might make her brother's life that much more difficult when he tried to seduce Arwen. And it was also hard to be rude to someone who looked as exhausted as Arwen. She was walking with an odd gait, obviously the result of riding on horseback for several days, and the scar on her face demonstrated how much effort she had spent trying to save Frodo. Much as Huchelda despised the elf princess, they were both dedicated to keeping the Dark Lord from reclaiming his ring, and so Huchelda restrained her cruel tongue in deference to their common cause.
Instead, each elf lady nodded at the other as she passed. As they did so, Huchelda noticed the white jewel hanging from Arwen's neck, and an idea began forming in her brain. She abruptly turned around and headed toward Rivendell's smithy. Surely no one else would be using it tonight…
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Elladan, who had been assigned to keep the twins out of Frodo's room at all costs, spent most of the evening wishing that he could be a fly on the wall with writing utensils. Every five minutes, on average, his father would let fly an expletive at such volume that it could be heard through the thick door, typically an expletive of a most foul nature that Elladan had never before heard uttered. He imagined that, were he in the room, he could probably fill a book with unusual curses, and he knew that such a tome would already have a fairly substantial built-in audience (starting with, but certainly not limited to, his brother, Legolas, and every other male elf who had yet to outgrow his tendency toward mischief). "Lord Elrond and the Art of Cursing, compiled by Elladan" had a nice ring to it. And, if the hobbit had indeed brought with him the Ruling Ring, then every good being in the world would probably want a copy before all this was over.
Despite that, though, he still didn't understand why it was so urgent for his father to commence the healing tonight. Even if, as was whispered, Frodo had encountered one of the Ulairi (Elladan shuddered at the thought that they were again abroad), Elrond would probably do more harm than good trying to heal tonight. An unspeakably vile witch had been in his head, he had seen his in-laws doing things that you never wanted to see your parents doing, he probably had a concussion from Mithrandir's staff, he was sleep deprived to the extreme, and he had more alcohol in his system than it would take to put five average elves under the table. He should have just told someone else to keep Frodo alive for twenty four hours or so and taken that time to recover his strength, but his father was as likely to admit defeat as a hobbit was to admit that he was full. In other words, the chances that Elrond would be getting any real sleep in the next few days were slim to none, and slim was waving to him from the deck of a ship leaving Harlindon. They would be lucky if the hobbit made it out of this alive…
Elrohir shifted stealthily through the shadows. His task, which he had been given no choice about accepting, was to make sure the twins could not seduce Arwen or Estel while they were vulnerable on account of fatigue. Of course, he would have failed just as the evening began had Aragorn not remembered the advice Elrohir had given him. "After you've eaten, proceed directly to your room and seal all the locks on the door. If any strangers attempt to waylay you, plead overtiredness and brush them off as politely as possible. Do not let them touch you." Aragorn had successfully followed this suggestion when approached by the female twin while Elrohir was guarding his sister, unaware that Mithrandir had already put the male twin out of commission of the night. Elrohir had also been unable to prevent Huchelda and Arwen from passing each other in the hall, though thankfully no incident had ensued. Just as they were upon each other, the evil one had suddenly turned and scurried off in the opposite direction, as though some new diabolical plan had just occurred to her. He had really wanted to follow her and find out what she was doing, but he was afraid of what the consequences would be if he left the bedroom hallway again, especially because his task had also included the charge of insuring that his sister and Estel spent the night in separate rooms. Elrond was still uncomfortable with the thought of his daughter giving up her virginity and immortality, if she hadn't done so already, to a human. Elrohir shook his head. Even though they didn't usually see eye to eye, he understood his sister well enough to know that she and Estel were totally smitten and that their father's resistance would only strengthen her resolve. Assuming the visitors didn't interfere. Elrohir had never been exactly thrilled with the idea of his adopted little brother marrying sooner than he did, but he would happily serve as best man if it would get rid of these strange twins, which he strongly doubted were even part of this world.
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Having broken his fast, Vienasar came to the conclusion that the best way to enjoy this lovely autumnal day was to go outside and practice with his sword. The one hanging from his belt, that is. Since the unfortunate and unspeakable incident two days past, he had given up practicing with his other sword (OA/N: I told you he would never do that again, bitch!), though, if all went according to plan, his other sword would be going to battle in a night or two. So, in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to hone his weapons skills with the talented elves of Rivendell.
So it was that he was quite pleased to find one of Elrond's esteemed advisors, Arestor, casually practicing with an elegant curved elven blade. Vienasar, who in public tended to be far more tactful than his sister, nodded politely to the elf lord and requested the honor of a casual duel.
Erestor looked at Vienasar in some disbelief. Where had this façade of civility come from? Whether or not he had actually done anything, he was implicitly involved in his sister's vile manipulations of Lord Elrond's mind, and there could be no question that Glorfindel had caught him doing something that few elves did and fewer still would admit to. Though he had always wondered about some of those Lorien guys… but that was neither here nor there. What was here was the foreign elf, apparently unaware of the current state of his sword and desiring to engage in swordplay. Well, this could be fun. Despite all the boasts, Erestor seriously doubted that Vienasar knew anything about the kind of swordplay that didn't involve his namesake, and, though he doubted he could actually harm the jerk, it would still feel good to embarrass him. So Erestor responded by bowing slightly, waving his weapon in an elegant flourish, and holding it in front of him, wondering how an elf with half a sword would attempt to attack him.
Vienasar watched Erestor in some disbelief. Was this the best pre-duel flourish the elf lord could put together? Maybe this wouldn't be the challenge he had expected. Grabbing the hilt of his own weapon, he dramatically pulled it forth from the scabbard, rotated his wrist, flipped it to the other hand, rotated it again, spun it through the air, thrust it behind him, threw it between his legs and over his head, shook his booty a couple times on the off chance that Arwen was watching from her window and for the benefit of the ladies strolling by the river, caught it again, and held it in front of him, with his weight on his forward leg and the sword pointing at his foe, finalizing it with an exclamation of "On guard!" This time, though, it was Erestor who was watching him in disbelief, with perhaps a bit of laughter in his face. Vienasar followed the other elf's eyes and then began laughing himself when he realized what had happened: he had left the bottom half of his sword in the scabbard. So this is what part of what his future adopted brother-in-law had endured when he had come to the hobbits as a mysterious ranger with a broken sword.
It took all of Erestor's concentration not to laugh at this fool. It certainly had taken him long enough to discover what Elladan had done to his blade, and he did not even seem perturbed by it. Several moments of awkward silence passed as Erestor incredulously watched Vienasar, who was looking at his now-useless sword with what could best be described as a silly grin on his face.
Finally, he could not take it anymore. Remembering the plan conceived long before the true extent of these twins' sick malice became known, Erestor suggested that they might wish to go and get the sword repaired. The villain only laughed. "Not yet. I want to play around with it like this first. It might even the odds between us." "Even the odds?" thought Erestor. "More like give me an even greater advantage." But he did not express such confidence aloud, instead only nodding his head in dubious acquiescence. The strange elf had not bothered to question the fact that both of them were using sharp and fully serviceable weapons, and Erestor did have to wonder if Vienasar could in fact die on account of his own stupidity.
Vienasar wondered why his opponent was so supremely confident. Had he not heard of the amazing military prowess of the immortal Prince Vienasar, son and heir of King Ralas Firnquareion of Nantaurea? Well, it was his loss. Without further inaction, Vienasar crouched protectively and scuttled forward like a crab on the attack. As their blades clashed, he began mentally reviewing his accomplishments, still appalled that Erestor had heard of none of them. He had killed his first orc at six. He had single-handedly slaughtered the evil hordes of Warivadmin who had threatened fair Nantaurea while his father and sister were abroad. He had slain…
Erestor could not understand what the Hall was going on. The contest was perfectly even. His foe had parried every single stroke and Erestor actually had to work to defend himself. Which was very odd, considering that Vienasar was fighting as though he had never held a sword, intact or otherwise, in his entire life. And yet, somehow, every stroke, no matter how wild or seemingly ineffective, would have struck him had he not moved to block it. How was this possible? The only answer he could come up with was that the twins' powers extended beyond being able to manipulate the sexual thoughts of others.
…And then there was the time Barney, the reluctant Balrog, had tried to attack Nantaurea on a dare from his more macho Balrog friends. The good prince had given the would-be assailant a talk on standing up for himself ("Stand up for yourself, Barney! You don't need the approval of those jerks. If you don't want to slaughter innocents for personal gain, nothing those bullies can say can make you) before going off and butchering said macho Balrog friends. As a side note, Barney had relocated to the mines beneath Caradhras (formerly occupied by another victim of Vienasar's known only as 'Durin's Bane') shortly after his elf friend had wiped out his other acquaintances, where his ego would be fed by the worship of goblins. But he would never forget the advice to stand up for himself… That massacre had brought Vienasar's Balrog-head count to twenty six, and that excluded those with which his sister had aided him. No other Balrog-slayer could claim anything approaching that many. Which reminded him of a question he had been meaning to ask… Bringing his thoughts back to the combat at hand, Vienasar disengaged from his latest parry and inquired of Erestor a question that had been nagging him since he first entered this world: "Is Rivendell Glorfindel the same as Gondolin Glorfindel? Or just his namesake?"
Erestor sighed. It wasn't enough that this obnoxious youngling was almost beating him with a sword, he was also seeking a definitive answer to one of the greatest mysteries in Middle-earth. Erestor himself was uncertain. It had never even occurred to him to raise the question until centuries after he had first met Glorfindel and, when he did, Glorfindel had merely raised his eyebrows suggestively and kept his mouth shut. And, after thinking about it, Erestor had come to the conclusion that he just did not care. Whatever Glorfindel's past (or lack of the same) entailed, it would not affect their friendship. But there was no way he was going to admit to Vienasar that he did not know the answer. One solution was to be enigmatic. The other was to bluff enigmatically. The former would be easier, but the latter was often more fun and, more to the point, far better suited for swordplay conversation.
"Are you the same Vienasar who fought under Maedhros?" Vienasar stopped his blow short. That wasn't the answer he had been expecting. And he was pretty sure that he was the only Vienasar ever to exist. Before he could answer, though, Erestor elaborated. "The Vienasar who accounted for more than half of the orc casualties at Dagor Aglareb? And killed a Balrog before falling in Dagor Bragollach?" Vienasar paused again. He was pretty sure that he had never been to the Halls of Mandos, and even more sure that he hadn't come back therefrom, but this First Age Vienasar sounded like his type of guy, and perhaps there was respect to be gained by pretending to be one in the same. "Perhaps."
"Exactly. Just as, even if you were such an individual, you would not willingly disclose your identity, neither does Glorfindel trust the truth of his background to any except his closest friends."
Vienasar looked dissatisfied with that response. Erestor wasn't surprised, but he was glad that Vienasar had proverbially swallowed the tale of his namesake hook, line, and sinker. That appeal to his pride had been rather subtly and skillfully done, in Erestor's estimation, and he was definitely looking forward to the time when Vienasar would attempt to relate the deeds of this fictional Vienasar to another inhabitant of Imladris. That would be worth a laugh in these otherwise trying times.
But Vienasar didn't seem to be buying all of the explanation. "And you mean to tell me that you aren't one of his closest friends?"
Erestor paused and made a couple more difficult attacks while considering the next step of his bluff. He decided, after both of his moves were successfully blocked, that he might be best off being honest and explaining his own rationalization of the problem. "Before I knew the truth, I thought of it in terms of what it meant to Imladris as a community. If Glorfindel is indeed the First Age hero, then we as a community are far better protected and have another worthy leader. On the other hand, if the elf who engaged the Witch King outside Fornost and drove him from the north was a First Age Balrog-slayer, then it detracts from the heroism of that act, because driving off the Witch King was just another day's work, and it makes us question our own abilities. Glorfindel the Balrog-slayer can fight the Witch King and come out on top, but could Lord Elrond defeat that evil in single combat? Could I? Neither of us have a pedigree like Glorfindel's in single combat with supremely evil monsters, so who could say? But if Glorfindel had never fought a Balrog, then he was just another elf who, given an opportunity, made the most of it. And, on top of that, there's the question of the Valar. On the one hand, if they let Glorfindel go, then he's a living example of the mercy and goodness of the Valar who proves that they are still involved in the world. On the other hand, if there is only one Glorfindel, then why is he the only elf sent back to us in our time of need? What was the specific purpose for his return? Is there some great task remaining for him that no one else could accomplish? Will it fall to him to destroy the evil Ring that has come to us? So there are difficult implications to think about no matter what the full extent of his past is. So, no, I'm not going to tell you the answer. This is Middle-earth. Do you think I would just make it really easy for you by telling you the response to your inquiry?"
It had been some time since Vienasar had heard such a load of bull (the last time being the reasons his father gave for not letting him go to that 'wine-tasting' party), but before he could respond, he had to parry the particularly vicious blow with which Erestor had renewed the fight. As he took a step back, though, he became aware of a much-desired presence behind him. He whirled around. She was looking down, as though she had been checking out his ass… which was odd, considering that he had not been actively projecting charm, so he had attracted her with only the passive charm exuded all the time by his perfect body. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
"Erestor, how could you allow such a lovely specimen into Rivendell without telling me? Even Legolas would look ordinary next to him. Oh, and look! He is so skilled as to fight you with a broken blade? I love a man who can fight with less than a whole sword. Surely you would do the honor of introducing me to him."
Erestor scowled. This scum now had Arwen wrapped around his finger, and he had yet to even say a word to her. There was only one possible solution to this madness. Before he could do so, however, Vienasar turned back. "Thank you, good sir, for doing me the honor of practicing with me. I am, however, a bit tired from our fight and need a rest or…" He trailed off, and Erestor looked at him blankly. "It's a joke: a rest or, Erestor…" The object of said 'joke' continued to stare forward in disbelief, but Arwen starting laughing, a silly expression on her face. Vienasar turned and looked at her, beaming happily. Erestor growled and advanced, as though to make the requested introduction, but just as he reached Vienasar he drew up his sword and clubbed the fiend on the back of the head.
Vienasar crumpled to the ground. He fought to regain control of his swimming consciousness but knew it would be a losing battle. Before things went black, though, he felt his love kneeling over him and saying "Take him to my room. I have enough skill to heal this without disturbing my father." Even as he blacked out, the smile remained fixed on his face. When he woke up, he would be in bed and alone with Arwen.