Here it is, The Final Chapter…of sorts. There's that sequel coming eventually, but as I'm researching one of the characters now it might take a while (but hopefully not more than a couple weeks). Review responses are going up here again, as the end of the chapter is dominated by my characteristic inane psychobabble otherwise known as author notes:
Mirowood: Thanks for the compliment about my action scene, though if you'd seen Frontier you might have felt differently…seriously, coming from you, a compliment about a battle means a lot. Raistlin's illness does indeed stem from his magic (and certain other sacrifices he made for it…but read the books for that info). Hope this is squabbly enough for you; it originally wasn't, but I have so many people telling me to have Feanor and Maedhros go at it that I just can't resist.
GuessWho: You got me! I actually was going to include an Author's Note about a cough drop probably not working on Raistlin in chapter 3, but my notes were getting so long it got cut. And you're also right about him not wanting to come…that's why Fizban is chaperoning him.
Sangfroid: Don't worry about being too nerdy; there is no such thing. My guitar is named Eldarion…I think that pretty much speaks for itself. Thanks for the comments about my sarcasm (I loved writing the dialogue) and for catching the typo; my brother actually was typing my manuscript at that point (I hired him while I had to do chores) and he's never read the Silmarillion. And yes, I am tormenting Maedhros quite a bit…my reasoning is that he can't escape the Curse even in death, so naturally everything he tries is going to go wrong. But he keeps trying; that family is known for their tenacity, after all…and for their argumentativeness, which is displayed, ah, down there at the actual chapter. And I love Ken's hair too; I had his haircut (if not his hair color) for years.
Coolmarauders: I couldn't agree more. Glad you're awaiting the sequel; I tie up a few loose ends from 02 in it, actually…but that's the last story in the trilogy, so until then Ken'll just have to put up with stuff not making sense. Which we all know he hates…why, oh why am I so cruel to my characters?
Yael3000: See my email to you…thanks for the compliment…and yes I want your story. Ten o'clock arrives, I have to make this short. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I don't own this. I make far too many mistakes and own far too few copyrights to claim ownership.
So now it ends…
The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter Five: The New Member
Throughout the history of the multiple planes of existence which constitute the universe, many individuals have toppled from grace into the darkness of ignominy. Realizing their wrongs, many of these strive to remake themselves as new, better people. One of these, Nelyafinwe Maitimo Maedhros Russandol son of Feanor son of Finwe High King of the Noldor, realized he was not alone in his struggle and sought to unite he sinful comrades in an attempt to unite them all. From this concept sprang a noble institution, the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, for which Maedhros had hopes most high indeed.
Unfortunately, they all came crashing down.
Literally.
Maedhros and Feanor stood alone in the room he'd rented for the gathering, the room people from all worlds and planes could visit if they needed the help. One wall was marked with an ugly smoking scar; most of the tables and chairs were overturned; there were scorch marks on the floor. Feanor, deliberately ignoring both the chaotic mess and his son, was busy reattaching the door. It had been blown off its hinges for the second time with the advent of the Royal Knights, the haughty bodyguards of Lucemon, the bratty, self-absorbed fallen angel whose provocations had led to the meeting's dissolval into little more than an every-man-for-himself rumble.
Maedhros stood amidst the ruins, a blank, distraught expression on his face. "It…I…" he stammered. "They wouldn't even listen to me!"
Feanor smiled smugly. "What of the way you refused to listen to me? Had you only taken my advice and forgotten this deluded concept when I told you to, you would not have come to such harm." The dark-haired elf was the only member of the Group who had emerged unscathed from the brawl; his son sported a rather colorful black eye.
"Had I refused to listen to you earlier, such measures would hardly have been necessary!" Maedhros cried, flinging his arms wide. "Yet you convinced me, deceived me, seduced me into Oathtaking against the very Powers to whom we owe our pathetic existences!"
"I hardly seduced you," retorted Feanor. He could afford to be pert with his son; such are the privileges of victors. "You rallied to my cause of your own free will and out of loyalty to your father, both noble causes. As to the supposed sins you and I committed in the hot-bloodedness of revenge, I say anyone in our place with any sense of pride and dignity would have done the same. You have grown into a philosophizing fool, my son. Almost am I glad you surrendered your birthright to my half-brother; for if the Noldor are indeed a ruined race, your rule would have brought their demise even more swiftly."
The arrow sped towards its target with deadly accuracy and pierced a heart already vulnerable. Rage and sorrow filled Maedhros in a wave of despair, and without knowing fully what he was doing he lashed out and struck his father squarely across the jaw. Feanor stumbled backwards into the only half-finished door, knocking it over again and falling down on top of it. Staggering to his feet, he lunged madly at his son, outraged by such a blow, but Maedhros had expected the assault and was ready. He met his father in midair and the two elves fell to the ground, rolling and wrestling in a manner not unlike how Lucemon and the boy Ken had grappled only minutes before.
Maedhros had more battle experience than his father, despite only having one hand. He quickly gained the advantage, and as the two lurched as one to their feet, Maedhros's right arm was wrapped around Feanor's windpipe with his left hand holding the armless hand in place.
"It's not true!" he howled through a haze of anger and tears. "It's not true, it's not true, it's…" The mist cleared, and he perceived what he was doing. With a gasp of horror, Maedhros released his father and collapsed to his knees. "Father, forgive me!" he wailed brokenly. "Forgive me, forgive me…"
"No, son." Feanor's words and tone were cold, but his eyes burned. "Never beg for forgiveness. Never turn your back on your objective. And never disobey me again. Surely you owe me that much." Stepping over his prostrate son, he strode back to the doorway and repaired it unhindered as Maedhros shakily gathered his wits and, quivering with fear and guilt, stood. "Owe you?" he gasped, but let it go. What would profit from another argument? Nothing. Only more wounds. Ah, too late did he realize his errors! Always too late. Perhaps it was better, after all, to be like his father, who never even realized he had erred at all, for in his mind no error had been made…
"Why I'm doing this for you I haven't the faintest idea," Feanor mumbled as he completed his work on the door, hoping to spark another tirade so he could put his son back in place again. The more he beat against Maedhros, the more likely it would be his abysmal waste of an "heir" would finally give way; his son was, after all, fighting a battle he could not win. With a dramatic flourish, he attached the final screw to the door.
With an equally dramatic flourish, the door promptly blew off again, except this time it shattered into a million pieces and sent father and son diving for cover. Smoke billowed in through the jagged doorway, carrying with it notes of an ominous melody as a tall, black-caped, masked figure swept in, flanked by rows of men in impersonal white armor.
"Duh-duh-duh, duh-DUH-duh, duh-DUH-duh…"
As the music dwindled away, the tall man's breathing could be heard quite distinctly, as a respirator mask made each inhale and exhale loud and pronounced. "Is this," he demanded in a deep, reverberating voice, "the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group?"
Maedhros was sorely tempted to say no, but he bowed his head and nodded. Feanor smiled again: victory, truly, was his.
"Yes," said Maedhros aloud, "though we were forced to…disband early. But we can hold another meeting," he added hastily as the white-armored men pointed strange lethal-looking tubes at him, their fingers poised above small black triggers. Maedhros was already dead, but he was also taking no chances. "State your name and how long it's been since your last great work of evil." To Morgoth with the pledge, he thought. My family really does have bad luck with Oaths.
"My name is Lord Vader…" boomed the tall masked man.
"Hullo, Lord Vader," Feanor whispered softly, his eyes glinting with spite for his son as he mocked the greeting practice. Maedhros was sorely tempted to strangle him again for such a wound.
"…and it has been five, no, make that six minutes since my last great work of evil."
Both elves stared. Vader looked at them expressionlessly, not a difficult feat considering his mask. Voice grating with irritation—and maybe a little embarrassment, though in such an imposing presence it seemed out of place—he explained:
"We were stuck in intergalactic traffic; there was a bulk freighter with a bad engine in front of us and we couldn't maneuver around. I grew impatient and gave the order to nudge it with the turbolasers, just to get it moving, only it didn't have its shields up. It was only after the mangled remains floated past that I realized what I'd done was evil, which I swore I'd given up after I died in my son's arms." Seemingly eager to talk about something else, he looked around. "Not a very expressive locale," he remarked, seeing the scorch marks, overturned furniture, and, of course, the long-suffering door defeated at last.
To Vader's dismay and surprise, this comment made the red-haired man with pointy ears in front of him give a broken cry and sink to the ground, his head resting on his knees and his one hand. As the redhead sobbed, the other person began to smile; then his face contorted and he sat down as well, putting his arms around the crier. "Such tears are fruitless," he said.
"Then it is fitting I cry them, for all I do comes to naught!" Maedhros wailed, feeling the same despair that had overcome him as he clutched the Silmaril and hurled himself into doom so many years ago. "I tried hard, I really did, and I had the Valar and the other worlds' gods on my side for once, they sent out word and transportation and everything, and still I failed! Are the fallen too lost to be saved? Am I? Oh, Father, Father, it's not your fault I fell, it's mine!" Turning his head, Maedhros cried into Feanor's shoulder, making the latter more than a little uncomfortable. He had just won a great victory in his mental duel with his son, and yet he felt somehow dissatisfied. Maedhros may be a disappointment in many ways, but he is still my eldest son. He was apparently a warrior of great renown and a fierce enemy of Morgoth, and he did indeed fulfill the Oath when the others fell trying. He led his brothers well…or so they say. And he has never, ever, though he blamed me for his perceived condemnation, denied his identity. He has never denied his parentage. Never. Feeling a little sad himself, Feanor hugged his distraught son a little tighter.
Vader watched awkwardly, seeing before him a scene he never had a chance to play properly except when the last wisps of life were leaving him: that of father and son, taking solace in each other's company. Inhaling and exhaling particularly loudly, he reminded them of his presence while wondering idly if it would be evil to use the Force to convince the redhead to stop bawling. "I was not aware this was such an…intimate establishment," he began.
Feanor looked up, realizing where he was and instantly becoming annoyed again.
"He'll be all right soon, sir," he told the Dark Lord. "He just needs counseling."
THE END (for now)
a/n: Yeah, yeah, so Darth's way OOC. I haven't finished all my research yet and don't quite have a grip on him yet. He'll be better for my sequel. Hey, you think this was bad, you should've seen my first draft. The explanation of the bulk freighter incident involved him screaming at the slow-moving vehicle "Dude, get in the grandma lane!" Don't look at me like that; my brother wrote the speech I put in the first draft, and while it was hysterical it also was waaay out of tone with the rest of the piece.
I hope the Feanor/Maedhros fight satisfies all of you more than it does me. I just couldn't make it funny for some reason, so it's really quite dark; we really see the reckless temper Maedhros has inherited (and his tendency to repent once there's nothing that can be done to help the situation; poor guy.) And don't worry, the moral of the story is NOT "Once you're evil, nothing can save you," because I don't believe that. Feanor and Maedhros are not quite done learning to have a normal familial relationship yet…that's why there's the Phase Three Trilogy, coming "soon" (note quotations).
So…see you all then for "The Schism," the first installment of the Phase Three Trilogy, in which the Group become missionaries…allergies and Maglor and prosthetic appendages and possession (of sorts) and magical duels and brats and waay too much paperwork (and far too long a spoiler)! Bye for now!