Bet you all didn't expect an update this soon, huh? I've actually had time to type! Can you believe it?

Two quick notes: Sorry about the huge angsty italicized section right off the bat, but that's a scene I've wanted to write for a long time…and I know Tolkien's world doesn't really have "demons" in the strictest sense of the world (at least I don't think so), but to an uneducated early-Second-Age man, Orcs and fallen Maiar and the like could all be lumped into that category…the same goes for the innkeeper's rather fallacious retelling of the Noldolante…

But I won't get into all that, 'cuz this is a long one. Have fun.

(oh yeah: I don't own any of this. Even one of Maedhros's lines is adapted from "The Princess Bride")

All I Want, Chapter Three: Feanor's Unhealthy Preoccupation With Conflagration Continues, As He Has Neglected To Abide By The Proper Recuperative Processes

"This is all your fault," Maedhros snapped softly as he stalked back to the inn alone, having left Ken and Raistlin to continue the search.

My fault? Pray, elaborate.

Maedhros increased his pace, fire-red head held high.

Trying to outrun me? It will be difficult.

Unbidden, a picture of Feanor and Raistlin in an arena, each attempting to out-insult the other in front of an enraptured audience, swam into Maedhros's churning mind. He sought to banish it beneath choking waves of consciousness, stifling also the instinct to laugh, absurd as the idea might have been. Instead he focused on his brother, remembering another beach on which he had sought those he loved…

The waves were rough that day, sending salt spray into the air and licking his wounds like wet fire. Blood from his wounds seeped into his clothes; a thin sticky rivulet ran down his naked sword and left a line in the sand. The blood was salty too, salty and bitter with iron; but the salt that stung the most was leaking from his horrified eyes. Once again he had done what he had vowed never again to do. Once more he had slain others of his kind. Revenge for his brothers, some had said; lust for the jewel, others whispered. He knew it was the Curse, though, the horrible weight that would not be lifted until he stayed true to his Oath. Yet was the weight's removal worth the aching hollowness of remorse after the clouds of battle fled his mind?

His throat was hoarse from war-cries and screams of regret, yet still he called over the thunder of the waves pounding on the shore, waves that had swallowed his objective and kept his house Dispossessed.

"Amrod! Amras! Maglor!" In earlier days three other names had rounded out the summons, but no one would come if he called them now. The seven had dwindled to four. Perhaps less, now that this fight had fallen on the shores of the Sea like an avalanche of hatred and futility.

"Maglor! Amrod! Amra--Amrod!"

He had spotted something, a glint of red amidst fallen foes. Running to the pile, he uncovered the gasping form of a russet-haired warrior, fighting now for each breath. Gently he gathered the fallen warrior in his arms, lifted him out of sand made honey-sticky with blood.

"The…jewel?" choked the wounded.

"Gone," Maedhros whispered in a voice that barely existed. "Taken by Ulmo's realm."

"My brother?" The wounded elf did not need to specify which one.

"I haven't seen Amras. Can you stand?"

But the wounded man did not seem to hear him. "Amras…please, meet me there…I don't want to go alone…" he whispered, then smiled.

That smile worried Maedhros more than the most pain-filled grimace; he had seen it once before, on the face of one who moments later was naught but ashes on the wind. "Amrod…you're not going to leave. You're coming with me, and we're going to fulfill the Oath together."

"You…must do that now, Russandol. Amras…he and I are going together…he promised…and it is time to leave…I do not go alone…" Maedhros's littlest brother smiled again, a smile frozen forever in time.

Hurling a great cry to the empty heavens, the skies whose guardians had forsaken and condemned his House, Maedhros staggered to his feet, still carrying his brother's body, now asleep for all time. Bearing this burden, he made his way along the misty shore until another figure, shrouded at first in fog, appeared. A dark-haired figure, carrying an identical sorrow.

"No," sobbed Maedhros, blood and tears mingling freely on his battle-tarnished cheeks. "Not…both of them…"

Maglor, the apparition before him, nodded. He did not weep; his grief, Maedhros knew, could only be released through lament and song.

"They left together," Maglor said. "Neither one would have wanted it any other way."

Maedhros had never been closer to his brother before, not in the blissful days of Valinor nearly forgotten nor through all the hardships after. The circle was now complete. They had been the first two sons of Curufinwe Feanor. Now they were the last.

But now, Maedhros thought, returning to a beach on which an inn and not his brothers—one dead, one alive—was approaching, Maglor is the only one left. What keeps him clinging to this life? The Silmaril? His music? Perhaps the hope that I survived the torment as well and thus we will meet again? Well, we will meet, but it will not be as he imagined. I have not survived.

I'll bet he never reckoned I'd bring Father, either.

Feanor had been respectfully silent while his eldest son brooded, perhaps realizing whatever Maedhros was contemplating was too sacred to interrupt, but now that their objective was in sight it was open range for target practice again. He proved to be an excellent shot.

Mulling over past grievances again, my son? Wishing you could banish me from your mind now as you did all those years ago when first I left?

"I never abandoned you. Your Oath was always on my mind."

Then why did you take so long in its fulfillment? You knew where they lay for so long and made no move. And then, when the ruffians and vagabonds of Doriath did the service for which you lacked the courage, again you hesitated!

"I 'hesitated', as you call it, because every time I have made a rash decision people have died because of it! And we are not having this conversation any more! In fact"—Maedhros knocked on the door of the inn—"you will not speak again for the duration of our stop at this establishment!"

To his surprise, Feanor actually fell silent. Perhaps he was offended; perhaps he was stunned mute at the tone of authority his son commanded. Futile most of his ventures had been, but Maedhros was still a general. He still knew how to give orders.

The door opened a crack as the innkeeper peered out. "You again!" He began to shut the door.

Maedhros thrust his arm through the opening, keeping the door from closing completely. "Please, sir, hear me out! I honor your decision in expelling my party from your inn and would not dream of crossing your threshold after being banished thusly. However, I believe when I made my exit some of my effects remained behind. I merely wish to reclaim these possessions. Would you be so kind, therefore, as to hand me my pack?"

"Hey look," someone said inside, "the mad elf's back."

"Red hair," said another. "Have you ever heard of an elf with red hair?"

"Perhaps he's a demon!" Apparently one of the patrons had demonism on the brain and would not be dissuaded. "He was askin' strange questions about Numenor. Perhaps the demons are planning an attack!"

"I have heard of an elf with red hair," the first man said as the innkeeper went to fetch Maedhros's pack. "But they're all dead. The sons of Feanor."

"Feanor? Who's that?"

"A demon?"

That man grows tiresome.

"I concur wholeheartedly, Father." Maedhros shifted from one foot to another, waiting for the innkeeper to hand him his "effects," but the man had stopped to instruct the ignorant masses gathered in his common room.

"No, Feanor wasn't a demon, but you're close. He's the one what destroyed life for the elves and made them so fatalistic all the time. Think on it. Have you ever met a truly happy elf?"

Silence. Maedhros found he was craning his neck to hear.

"Feanor's fault, that." The innkeeper nodded sagely. "Wove a spell of magic and bewitched the elves when his house was looted. He claimed to hate the Dark Lord, but now most believe he was in secret working for him—"

"HOW DARE YOU! I NEVER—!"

Feanor, in his wrath, took over Maedhros without even realizing he had done so. "I NAMED HIM MORGOTH, AND ON HIS VERY DEATHBED, I CURSED HIM THRICE! BEWITCHED, SAY YOU? DESTROYED, SAY YOU? LIES! POISONOUS LIES SPREAD BY THE ENEMY TO GULLIBLE HYPOCRITES LIKE YOU, MORTALS! ERE YOUR RACE CAME INTO BEING I PERISHED! I KNOW THINGS NONE CAN EVEN BEGIN TO COMPREHEND! DEATH WOULD BE MERCIFUL FOR SLANDERERS LIKE YOURSELVES, WHO SPEAK OF WHAT THEY CANNOT UNDERSTAND! FOOLS, ALL OF YOU! CURSE YOU, AND YOUR RACE, AND ALL FOOLS!" Fumbling at the sword, for while his son wielded a blade left-handed (and buckled it accordingly) he favored the right, Feanor drew it and lifted it aloft. To his immense surprise and the terror of the man's patrons, the blade burst into flame.

Horrified, the innkeeper flung the pack out onto the sand and slammed shut the door. Feanor laughed and mock-bowed to the door, sweeping the sword and catching the inn afire. Then he shouldered the pack and strode off, as Maedhros struggled to shoulder his astonishment, his fear, and his guilt.

Smoke curling up from the horizon caught Vader's eye as he trailed along the beach behind Roger, yet in front of Lucemon. He stared at it, wondering whether or not to inform the Duke of its existence, but Lucemon took the decision out of his hands.

"Oh, wow! Look at that! Hey, maybe something got pillaged. Or razed. They should have waited for me. I'm very good at destroying to rebuild anew. I mean, you can't make utopia from what's already in existence, that's too messed up from other people's ideas. So you gotta start from scratch…"

"Be quiet," said Roger calmly, eyes fixed on the rising tendrils. Lucemon fell silent as if he had been suddenly struck mute. Perhaps, Vader mused, he had.

Roger seemed to make his mind up about something. "Follow me," he stated in the same level yet compelling tone, and set off at a determined pace towards the smoke. His companions followed unquestioningly.

Soon another figure came into view, clutching a sword and seemingly arguing with itself; it brought with itself the scent of smoke and of guilt.

"This is one of them," Roger hissed. "Hide and we will—"

Too late. Resolve set, his own master at last, Anakin Skywalker strode forth to the field of battle, mask disappearing as he assumed the younger, lither form of his Jedi days. This swordsman looked like one who would rely on speed and flexibility; he had to compensate accordingly. A pity he was now shorter than his opponent.

His lightsaber in his hand but deactivated, Anakin stood squarely in the figure's path.

"Yes, what do you want? Stop that, Father! I'm terribly sorry," it said.

Anakin sighed. He'd been such a fool, getting apprehensive about the dangers he might face. This pointy-eared coppertop was obviously touched in the head. "I want nothing from you," he told it, "save to return you whence you came." Then I can leave, he added silently. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I get what I want.

This apparently was quite an unwanted answer, to judge from the response it provoked: the elf put his sword up in a "guard" position. As Anakin activated his lightsaber, he recognized his foe from his few brief moments at the last Group meeting. The last time he'd seen this individual, the redhead was bawling his eyes out. Pity. He'd been hoping for a decent challenge, someone skilled with a blade; the problem with being unparalleled, Anakin had discovered, was that things got boring after a while. Of course, then one put one's guard down, and eventually received a most unpleasant surprise…

…which, he realized with a jolt, was exactly what was transpiring here. The elf's blade had suddenly, inexplicably changed to that of a lightsaber, and he was attacking.

The sword was still in Maedhros's right hand after the catastrophe in the inn, and so it was that Feanor fought the first few blows of the battle against the dark lord, attacking with a singular force and drive the Sith respected yet a carelessness for which he felt a deep disdain. Here was someone who valued the lightsaber not for its elegance or its symbolism but merely as a means to an end, a way to lop somebody's head off and thus rid yourself of the hassle of dealing with him. Vader—Anakin—could have no respect for a swordsman like this. He resolved to end the duel quickly and struck.

The elf countered just in time, but with an expert twist Vader disarmed him. The saber fell to the ground, though strangely its blade still hummed its existence. He disregarded it, his weapon at the throat of the enemy. But something seemed wrong. The elf was smiling.

Maedhros nodded in answer to the dark lord's unasked question. "I apologize for deceiving you, sir, but there's something you must know. You see…"

Claws snaked out from his right hand and he swiped, striking the flesh that had been covered by a mask for so long Vader had forgotten what it felt like to bleed, giving the redhaired elf a chance to rearm himself with a quick grab. "…I'm not right-handed." He attacked.

Something had changed. Here was a foe who appreciated the subtleties of saber-fighting. Vader bowed his head respectfully, ignoring the blood seeping out from his weak flesh, muttered "I've got a bad feeling about this…", and battle in earnest began.

It seemed to Ken that, once Raistlin started coughing, nothing and no one could get him to stop. While the two sat on the beach by the fire they had started, waiting for a kettle of water to boil so Ken could fix Raistlin his herbal tea, the mage was unable to eat even the simple bread the boy had conjured. He coughed and coughed, his slender body racked and stricken; his throat grew raw and his lungs felt like they were being torn to shreds. Eyes closed, wiping blood from his mouth, he collapsed on the ground.

Instantly Ken was at his side, goggles firmly in place in front of his eyes. No medicine he could think of to conjure would help the golden-skinned man, but…

"A cot," he muttered to himself, stretching his hands out. "Something for him to lie on until the spasm has passed. And"—inspiration struck—"a kettle of boiling water." Helping Raistlin to lie down on the cot, an object created out of digital data yet solid in form, he poured the new kettle out into a cup and added the herbs, disregarding the one over the fire entirely. The coughing fit subsided as Ken, holding the cup in one hand and propping Raistlin's head up with the other, gave the black-robed man his tea.

Heaving a shuddering sigh, the mage lay back on the cot and did not speak for several moments, savoring the pleasure of simply breathing in-out, in-out. Finally he turned bleary, but focused, golden eyes on Ken and whispered, "You seem to have achieved…quite the mastery of your little gift."

"Oh!" Ken blushed. "Well. Yes, I guess. I've…manipulated data before so when I figured out that's all they were doing…"

"Fool." Raistlin's thin, blood-flecked lips curled in an ungrateful sneer. "And you claim intelligence, even genius. Open your eyes! They are tempting you, 'Creator', as they are tempting us all. For that is their plan; do you not see?" He smiled. "No. No, of course you don't. And even if you did, there is no guarantee that you would care, either."

"What?"

But Raistlin was asleep, or near sleep, or feigning sleep; in any case, he was unavailable for comment. As his arms, rigid during the spasm, relaxed, a small book slipped from one of his spacious sleeves. Ken reached down and picked it up. "Maedhros's Fell Deeds handbook…you took it from him?"

A rose petal marked, presumably, a page of importance to the mage. Opening to it, Ken began to read, and understanding slowly dawned on him, its rays steadily piercing the gloom shrouding the horizons of his mind.

"After or during Phase Two (Do A Good Deed For A Friend), the Recovering Evil Madman should undergo, with caution, Phase Three: Conversion Of The Corrupt. This phase is by far the most dangerous for two main reasons. Firstly, the ex-villain will be confronted not only with potential bodily harm but also a blaring reminder of his former self in the form of the being he is supposed to convert. This could very easily prompt overwhelming waves of guilt or, on the flip side, lead him back down the path into eternal darkness. Secondly, the ex-villain should be given gift(s) to help him, but the most useful gifts are often of a nature such that they represent one of his darker talents, desires, and/or qualities. In short, abuse of the gift—which by its very nature would be very easy to abuse—negates all the progress made by the ex-ex-evildoer on his road to recovery and he has to start all over again. This is not only tedious and time-consuming, but also usually detrimental to the health and well-being of those in the vicinity of the subject."

Not needing to read any more, Ken replaced the rose petal and set the book down next to Raistlin's new red spellbook. Of course, the dark-haired boy thought, taking his goggles off and staring at them like they had just appeared. Of course. Our darkest desires…our passions, which can help and hurt us, corrupted and twisted as they have become by our fall…it makes perfect sense. Raistlin loves and is talented in magic, but it feeds his cold-blooded obsession with power, so he gets a spellbook. Maedhros fought the Ultimate Evil of this world, not because it was the right thing to do but for revenge, and he slew other elves as well, so he gets a sword. His people became united after his half-cousin freed him by cutting off his hand, but despair was planted in his heart by his captivity; so he's given the hand back with deadly claws. I guess he gets two gifts, plus the pack, because he's supposedly the leader. It's his brother we have to find and, probably, get to join the group. He is guilty of the same crimes as Maedhros.

Ken had been avoiding analyzing his own gift, afraid to confront the thing he held in his hand, but he steeled his nerves and forced himself. They have the Crest of Kindness on the bridge, but what does that mean? Probably nothing. I thought I could control data, that it was mine to use how and where I wanted. So now I'm given total control. The power of creation…and I have enjoyed it. I've only used it to help, though; that first glass of water was an accident. But I like to know I have some control over a situation, that I won't be helpless in a crisis like I was when Sam…when he had his accident and all I could do was stare. His fist clenched. Yes, I like having this power, but I have learned part of my lesson, haven't I? I haven't wreaked havoc with another Kimeramon. I haven't created life.

Or am I just rationalizing?

Behind him the kettle over the fire began to boil over. The noise made Ken glance up. He stared, shocked.

"Hi," said Lucemon. "The elf won't be coming back."

Ken jumped to his feet, unsure in his course of action. His first thought was to don the goggles and conjure a weapon with which to combat the angel and the bearded stranger behind him; then he thought that might be the path of temptation and faltered. Lucemon laughed at what he thought was an attitude of defeat.

"You really are making this too easy, human. I knew you people were weak, but honestly I'm a bit disappointed. I'd hoped—"
"Shut up," said the bearded man in a pleasant voice accompanied by an unpleasant smile. Lucemon did as he was told, and Ken was impressed with the newcomer in spite of himself. Had he, or any other of his fellow "ex-villains" as the Handbook had put it, uttered those two words to Lucemon, the angel would've attacked them.

The man turned a far more disarming smile on Ken. "Sorry about that. I merely wish to speak to the wizard. Where is he?"

"Wizard?" Ken bluffed, stalling for time in which to make up his mind. "There's no wizard here…"

"No need to add lying to your list of sins on my account," came a sibilant voice behind him. "I am here and ready to treat with the gentleman." Raistlin stood and faced the bearded man. "If one could call him that."

The man's expression changed ever so slightly; a hint of menace lurked in his smile and hid in his eyes. "Awfully rude of you, mage. Do you know what happens to the friends of rude people? They get hurt."

Something exploded around Ken; he felt himself be rocketed into the air and was dimly aware of hearing Raistlin chant something before he felt a whooshing sensation all around him and…

Ken landed on a deserted stretch of rocky, cave-strewn beach. Shaking sand out of his hair, he realized Raistlin had saved his life. He had teleported Ken out of harm's way.

The familiar teeth of guilt began to nibble. Yes, Raistlin had saved him. Now the mage would have to face both the strange man and Lucemon.

Alone.

a/n: Next chapter's the big fight one! Swords in one area, magic in another…it's an awfully violent beach. I don't think I want to vacation there.

Scenes One and Two of my musical are now on my blog (click "homepage" on my bio or just type in if anybody wants to check them out. Unfortunately, due to the nature of blogs, the scenes will be in reverse order, so to read it chronologically you'll have to scroll down to Scene One, then back up. We here in Management apologize for the inconvenience.

Review replies:

Mirowood: The goggles reaction is because he wore a similar apparatus as part of his evil alter ego's outfit…probably should have explained that in my chapter…and the "spirit of fire" thing is because that's what the name "Feanor" means. As for Raistlin being the weaker of the two mages…just wait and see. (He had several comments about that but I won't publish them here.) And as for Lyon…well, let's just say my brother is replaying Fire Emblem, only he's taking notes this time. Thanks for reviewing; it's always nice to hear from you, since we never seem to be able to coordinate a phone call.

Abbie: Thanks a bunch! BTW, I subscribed to your blog, so I am reading it, and it's very very funny. I just can't think of anything to say in a comment, and I feel silly since I haven't got a profile picture yet…everybody else has these nice little pictures and I'm still inking the one I want to use. Lots of Roger in the next chapter, so pleasy please keep reading.

Sangfroid: Yes, I know, you didn't review, not this story anyway…but you sort of reviewed it when you responded to "Two Story Town"…thank you thank you thank you! It sounds weird, but I missed reading your reviews. They always made me laugh, and I really like it when people tell me they like specific things, like you do. As per your musical request…like I said at the beginning of these author's notes, some is on the blog now.

And now I must be off, to type histories for these guys to post on my blog for confused readers; the further in I get, the more references to their past lives are included. The next story in this trilogy is cameo-laden, as well, so I'll probably have to do a "Who's Who." I would love to have been able to put a lot of LOTR cameos in this one, but Maedhros stated categorically in the first story that it had been "two hundred and forty-eight human years…" since his last great work of evil (ie stealing the Silmaril and killing the guards) so we were stuck with the Second Age. On Krynn, however, time moves a little faster…whoops, gave away where they're headed next. Oh well. Let's just say the Shalafi isn't quite done with his apprentice, and his old foe even in death rears her ugly head (formerly heads)…

I'll leave you with that.