Taa-daaaah! The last chapter of of the sequel to the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group! Do I rock or WHAT! (okay, you can all stop saying "or what" now. You're doing absolutely nothing for my self-esteem, I'll have you know.)
I have received several comments about how there are no breaks between chapters in my sections, and no one is more upset about this than me, as I included little breaky things in my Word documents. So I will be continuing to try new section breaks until something works. Hopefully it'll work…
Oh, and I have a rather important correction to make from chapter 3. When Feanor is giving his little rant'n'rave about his not being a magical demon that enchanted the Noldor, he says that he "named Melkor Morgoth, and on his very deathbed, I cursed him thrice." That "his" is supposed to be a "my." Feanor did the dying, not Morgoth.
Oh, and I made one more change. After thinking about it, I determined the Silmarillion characters likely wouldn't call each other by the Sindarized versions of their names; instead, Feanor would use their Quenya father-names and Maedhros would likely use the mother-names (being quite a bit like his mom…or at least more than most of his brothers). What this means for you readers is: When Feanor says "Nelyafinwe" and "Kanafinwe", he means Maedhros and Maglor, respectively. Maglor is referring to Maedhros when he says "Maitimo," and Maedhros to Maglor when he says "Makalaure." (Confused yet? )
Oh, and I don't own Raistlin, Roger, Ken, Maedhros, Feanor, Namo, Lucemon, Darth Vader, Maglor or anybody else…except the demonism guy from chapter 3. Great.
Oh, and there's a story on this thing, too, not just author's notes. Here it is.
All I Want, Chapter Five: All The Other Chapters Had Nice Long Descriptive Names, But Now My Well Of Creativity Has Run Dry, So This One's Just Called "The Last Chapter"
Of all the stunts he'd pulled, all the tricks he'd played, all the stupid plans he'd followed just because he knew his comrades would need someone with a brain along to get them out alive, this one, Raistlin decided, was by far the most embarrassing.
So he thanked the gods nobody was around to see it.
His hands were bound by a cord of magical fire; his staff and spellbooks lay on the ground, along with Maedhros's Fell Deeds handbook. Roger sat opposite him, gloating over what he perceived as a victory but what Raistlin merely considered a respite in the duel. He would play prisoner, recover his strength, and attack his foe anew.
In the meantime, however, the whole affair was excruciatingly humiliating.
Roger was searching through Raistlin's possessions, having stripped his "captive" of the many pouches, packs, and scroll cases hanging from his slender person. Opening one pouch, the duke wrinkled his nose in disgust and tossed it aside. "Bat guano. How unsanitary."
"Yet used in a spell that has been described as 'wonderful' and 'marvelous,'" Raistlin replied, adding under his breath, "far too many times." In his mind's eye, he saw the crazed old gentleman who'd escorted him to his first encounter with the Support Group, then sighed. The old man wouldn't be casting any more fireballs. Raistlin was not the only one who had made sacrifices.
Roger ignored him. "What's this…rose petals? To help curb the stench of the guano, of course."
No, to make you drop snoring where you stand, you pompous strutting fool, Raistilin thought venomously, clenching his teeth to keep from muttering the incantation.No, he had to bide his time…there was still a chance that Roger might let something slip, some vital key to his inner workings that, if Raistlin turned it, would reveal the duke's intentions.
Coming to a pouch he vividly remembered Raistlin digging into during the duel, Roger pulled out some of the herbs, rolled them between his fingers. "What's this for?" he asked, regarding the herbs with interest.
"That," Raistlin replied, "is a strength enhancer. During battle, one chews it to make the enemy's intentions clearer." Roger considered this explanation dubiously, then sampled the contents of the pouch. His face contorted, his cheeks paled, and he spat the mixture back into the pouch. "How'd you trick me?" he gasped, tongue unable to forget the bitter taste.
Allowing himself a small smile, Raistlin savored his little victory but was irritated at the way Roger had spit the used herbs back in with the fresh ones. Now he was out of tea. "I was most impressed with your trapping spell," he said, changing the subject, and he meant it.
It was Roger's turn to relax and gloat a little. "I did design that variation myself. It proved very useful. With it, and other spells, I nearly conquered a kingdom." He smiled, remembering. "I made the earth move, made supposed allies turn on those they had once called friend. I brewed a sickness no man ever conquered."
"Meaning, of course, a woman overcame it," Raistlin interrupted, nonplussed by Roger's nostalgia. "You wreaked such havoc on the land and among the people…for what goal? To what end? Surely you do not pride yourself on random acts of wanton destruction."
The bearded man shrugged. "Revenge. Contempt. Bitterness. Take your pick." He flung his arms wide in a flamboyant yet calculated gesture. "Who knows? The gods had decided they were against me. Perhaps I planned to overthrow them in turn."
"Apotheosis is overrated," Raistlin snapped irritably. Roger raised a seemingly casual eyebrow, but Raistlin said no more, repressing the desire to hurl a few more barbed insults in the duke's general direction. His chance was coming…coming…
Roger yawned, blinked: the morning's fight had tired him.
….came. Bonds dissolving with a word, Raistlin threw himself at the Conte Duke, pulling him to the ground with hands that burned like fire. Roger cried aloud in agony as those golden hands seared his flesh, bit into his arms, rendered him unable to fight back in pain. He did not know the black-robed mage was actually being merciful; had Raistlin wished it, the wounds he inflicted could have bled forever. As it was, Roger was merely burned.
As Roger writhed on the ground, Raistlin grabbed his rose petals and scattered them over his opponent's face. "Ast tasarak sinuralan kyrnawi," he whispered, and Roger's convulsions stopped, his eyes closed, his breathing slowed. He was asleep.
Having thus subdued his supposed captor, Raistlin reclaimed his pilfered possessions, then placed his hand on the man's forehead and called to mind a spell he'd found in his new spellbook. Murmuring softly in the language of magic, his tongue caressing each syllable of the spell and the magic flooded through him in waves of precious power, his hand glowed a faint red, then dimmed.
Roger's body glowed, then dimmed. Coughing, Raistlin smiled through the fit. The spell was cast. Staff in hand, he made ready to leave.
"You will follow me," he told the sleeping body on the ground. Roger stood, still slumbering soundly, bound by Raistlin's magic. Even when he woke, Raistlin would be able to command his movements. Any order the golden-eyed mage gave, Roger would be unable to disobey until the spell wore off.
I wish I'd discovered this sooner, Raistlin thought to himself as he went in search of Maedhros and Ken. I could have made Caramon shut up whenever I wanted…
o0o
"Hello? Who's down there?" Lucemon's voice echoed jarringly off the walls of the cave. "I know you're down there, Ichijooji!"
Ichijouji, Ken thought fiercely; but he remained quiet, staring up not at the angel but at the other inhabitant of what he thought was a deserted hiding place.
"I know not of whom you speak!" the man called back up, then looked down at Ken. "Is he looking for you?" he asked softly.
"Yes, but I don't want to be found. I think he'll try to kill me, sir," Ken whispered back. Despite himself, he smiled. "You're Maglor, aren't you?"
The man—the elf; Ken caught a glimpse of a pointed ear—blinked, surprised. "You have heard of me?"
"Your brother Maedhros was on this very beach, searching for you, when he was assaulted by a comrade of the person up there now," Ken replied. "A friend and I were helping Maedhros look."
"Boy, you're stupid, human!" Lucemon called. "I can hear you down there!" A pause. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to come out and fight me?"
"My brother…is alive?" Maglor asked, wonder and joy flooding his face. "He's looking for me?"
"Who's that with you? Speak up, cuz I really don't want to have to climb down there!"
"Then don't," came another voice from above. Maglor looked at Ken, who shook his head; he'd never heard the voice before. Great, the boy thought. How many more comrades does Lucemon have?
A third voice filtered down through the murk, one both Ken and Maglor started upon hearing. "Ken, you can come up now…who's that with you?"
"Maitimo!" Maglor cried and, brushing, past Ken, scrambled up the narrow path to the cave opening. Ken, blinking bemusedly, followed.
He emerged into the sunlight and was greeted by the sight of Maglor and Maedhros embracing tightly, while a black-robed, helmeted figure held what looked like a laser sword centimeters from Lucemon's neck. The angel, terrified of making the slightest move and too close to his enemy to attack, stood perfectly still, barely even breathing.
At length the two brothers separated and stared at each other, marveling. "How…" Maedhros began. "I don't believe it! How did you survive? Did the Silmaril not pain your hand?"
Maglor held both hands up, palms forward; both were scarred as if burned. "With torment unbearable. Finally, cursing my fate, I cast it into the Sea, where no Curse or Oath can reach it. It is free, though I am not; some nights I still feel the pain, and I sing my laments to the waves. But you! Not only do you seem healthy, but you are whole! However did you survive?"
"I didn't," said Maedhros absently, his face strangely abstracted as if grappling with some unbearable truth. "You cast…away the Silmaril? Of your own free will?"
"Yes." Maglor's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, you didn't survive?"
"I mean I'm DEAD!" the red-haired elf snapped in a tone entirely different from his normal voice. "That, I believe, is the definition of 'not surviving.' How could you betray me so? No physical pain could possibly outburn the searing indignations we suffered when the Silmarils were stolen. And you…you discarded it like a mere trinket, like a bauble easily forgotten!" His voice grew cold and he turned away. "You are no son of mine."
"Of course not," said Lucemon, daring to speak. "Aren't you brothers? And one more thing: if the jewel doohickey is gone, then why are we here anyway? Reject lied to us!" This last sentence was directed at his captor.
Vader deactivated his lightsaber; Lucemon's anger was no longer directed at anyone present. "You're right. He lies. Everybody lies." His own rage built, less at Roger specifically than the world in general. Jewels meant nothing to him, but the lie…he was sick and tired of being lied to. He'd spent almost half of his life dedicated body and soul to a lie.
"I am no son of yours?" Maglor's face was confused and hurt. "Maitimo, you sound…you sound like our father."
"I. Am. Your. Father." Maedhros turned around, a fell light in his ice-grey eyes. "I defied the Valar and death itself to return, only I find that you in your foolishness have made all my efforts for naught. Yes, Kanafinwe, it is I, Curufinwe your father and leader, to whom you owe everything yet pay only treachery in return! Nelyafinwe, like a good, loyal son, allowed me to accompany him on this quest even after the so-called Lord of Mandos forbid it. And where do I find you, my sole surviving child? Wasting away like a hermit, singing your stupid poetry to the depths that claimed my treasure. You had no right to throw it away. It was mine. MINE!"
Ken sat down heavily on a rock, head back in his hands again. Suddenly everything made sense to him—the quest, Maedhros's strange behavior at the inn, Lucemon and the others' tracking them. It was unbelievable—yet feasible, given the events. Feanor was inside Maedhros.
"Father?" Maglor's voice quivered.
Maedhros blinked, shook his head; the feyness faded from his eyes. "I have him under control now, Makalaure. Forgive him; he knows not what he says. His anguish is great. Imagine waking one day without a voice, knowing you would never sing again. That is the pain he suffers, the pain of passion irretrievable. He has missed you, Makalaure my brother. And so have I."
"Maitimo…"
"That, in part, is why I am here. The shadows of past deeds haunt your heart still; I see it in your eyes. But I have founded a group, my brother, who will support you in your quest for redemption. This is my new quest. My new oath. Will you come with me?" He held out his right hand, a hand missing for hundreds of years.
Maglor stood, slightly overwhelmed, for a long moment; then he shook his head. "I must decline. You have found your penance. I have found mine. To dwell ever alone, immortal, is my fate. My punishment. I cannot return even to seek help and peace; no words can erase what has been done, so let me drown my grief in my own lonely tears. Thank you, but…it is beyond me to accept."
"You won't come?" Maedhros's face looked strangely, boyishly injured. Behind him, two silent figures approached, walking along the beach. Ken ran to greet one.
"Raistlin! We found him. We found Maglor."
"So I see." The mage coughed.
"Maglor won't come, though. Maedhros's Phase Three failed…and Feanor has been inside Maedhros's head this whole time!"
Raistlin smiled. Ken stared.
"You…you knew?"
"Merely read the signs. Hurry, Roger. Your companions are waiting."
Ken recognized the strange bearded man Raistlin had been fighting, stalking robotically along the beach wearing a scowl blacker than night. The boy paled; something seemed unnatural. "Raistlin…what did you do to him?"
"Nothing permanent. The spell will not last much longer, so we must make these last minutes count. I have not the strength currently to cast it again." He shot a golden glare at Roger. "Though I do have others at my disposal." The Duke glowered but made no reply.
Maedhros was still trying to convince Maglor; rummaging through his hard-won pack, his face darkened. "Where's my handbook?" he asked, exasperated. "Don't laugh, Father! This isn't humorous. Likely it's been incinerated along with that inn…"
"Oh, was that the smoke?" Lucemon asked. "I hadn't pinned you as the random-violence type. Now Goldie over there, he…" The angel broke off abruptly, stuck out his tongue, and looked at it. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out.
Ken looked up at Raistlin; the mage arched an eyebrow and handed the Fell Deeds handbook back to Maedhros. "If you care so much about that text, take better care of it."
"You took it? From me? When you knew how much it meant to me…stop acting so self-righteous, Father, this is not the same as what Morgoth did to you. Anyway, I have mine back now…"
"Bad move," said Ken without thinking, and he was right. Maedhros convulsed and fell to the ground, grappling for control of his body with its enraged occupant. Ken reached out a hand to help…
…and stopped short, feeling a pricking on his own neck. Running his hand across it, he frowned. What had that been? There'd been a vague uneasiness, a sense of something dark impending…
The feeling came again, stronger and more urgent this time. Looking at Raistlin, Ken decided the mage had nothing to do with it. This was from an outside source.
Then he could not think, as what felt like a fireball exploded in the back of his neck, where the Dark Spore still lodged in his spinal cord, its tendrils dormant yet present, reminders of a day when his mind was not wholly his own. Screaming, Ken clutched Raistlin for support; the mage staggered and caught hold of Maedhros, who still lay on the ground, grabbing at anyone and anything he could find as his father raged within…his right hand landed on the handbook…
A brilliant light flashed on the beach. As it cleared, Maglor looked around. Maitimo and his companions were gone.
"Maitimo? Father?" he asked softly.Then, head bowed, he sighed. Maitimo had always been a crusader, a warrior, tenacious and fierce. If he had to leave, so suddenly, then it must be for the quest he had found. He had found companions, too, even if they didn't seem quite well. Maglor had found nothing. Nothing but loneliness.
But as he had said himself, that was the fate he had forged.
"Good luck, my brother," he whispered, then descended back into the darkness of his cave. No one watched him go. No one heard the laments he composed, wailing above the waves in a voice like the Sea itself.
Yet several beings watched the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group arrive at their new destination, landing in a heap on the floor. The owner of the establishment in which they landed noticed them and recognized one. Several passers-by noticed and hastily exited.
And a great evil noticed and reveled. For soon revenge would be his.
A/N: Ooh, scary! Yeah, do I stink at conclusions or what?
Contest time: whoever can guess who noticed them gets to date one of the guys. (I'll pick the name out of a hat.) (Obviously if you're a guy you'll get a different prize…) Another mini-contest: This story in turn has a sequel (duh), yet I'm torn between three songs for the titular number. Please vote between: "One" by Simple Plan and "Dark Chest of Wonders" and "Wish I Had an Angel," both by Nightwish.
I know I said they'd be going to Krynn, but that storyline got dropped due to lack of…um…plot. So the status of all things REMSG is: there's a sequel to this coming, and then after/during that I'm also going to be doing a short-story collection where I pretty much make fun of everybody instead of having an actual plot. THAT's where the Krynn stuff is going. Dalamar Nightson: I owe you a Dally story! I swear you will get it!
Hey, while I'm at it, review replies!
GuessWho: Hooray, someone else was annoyed at me! Thank you for prompting me to sit my lazy butt down in a chair and TYPE! You get Fetchie Kudos Points! (don't ask; thing I do with the club I run) No, I've never read Oliver Twist, but I've seen the musical if that counts (which it probably doesn't.) Do I make a reference without realizing it? You've piqued my curiosity.
Sangfroid: I'm glad you're back! I like banter too, even though it's totally unrealistic…I saw this dueling show where the actors mocked all the banter in "Star Wars"…but never mind. Yeah, not as much Maglor in here as you'd probably like, but I hope what's in is acceptable. I'm going to write at least one short story featuring him for the anthology thingy. Thanks as always for your compliments.
Dalamar Nightson: Continuation of my note to you above…Hope the conclusion of the Roger&Raist duel was satisfactory. Personally I can't see Raistlin hurling himself bodily at someone, but it's funny to think about…I have a lot of tackling in my stories, don't I? And thanks for the heads-up about review replies.
Shalafi: Sorry Anakin wasn't a hit. I have trouble writing him…pages and pages of notes (yes, I do take notes while watching "Star Wars") with very little results. But he's not too main a character…was there anything specific you didn't like? Cuz I'll try to fix it…
Crysania Lomiel Moredhel: Wow, "Raistlin and the Rose" by Lake of Tears just started playing on my Media Player…that was scarily fitting…anyway, I love your name, I'm glad you liked the story, I just hope I can keep Raistlin in character…and Feanor is one of my favorites too. I wish Tolkien'd written more of the "Silmarillion" in novel form so we'd get more of Feanor's dialogue…I love his big long speeches (reading them and writing them too).
Abbie: Hi! I'm going to see you soon! I'll have seen you by the time you read this! Don't be afraid to wax Bryson on me; she is the master, the master of constructive criticism…
Conta Mirian: Thanks so much! I spent a lot of time fleshing out the Noldor, as there's a lot in Silm that reveals their personalities but it's never really stressed…as for Ken, well, whatcha gonna do when you're writing post-02? He's not as psycho with guilt, but he still has all those lovely little endearing character flaws…but I'm babbling again.
Mirowood: Hey man, my play's next week. When's yours? Maglor is a good hand with a sword but, as you can see, it doesn't really matter…the orange thing is actually from the source material...don't sweat it about not finding time to write. I know what that's like.
sqrt(-1): Did my scene divider work? And you're right, Maedhros could probably just think what he wants Feanor to hear…but it's more amusing for him to act schizo. Thanks for reading my Xanga, too…I need to update that thing…
That's it for now. Hope it was worth the wait. Please return for the next story, the title of which will be determined by YOU! Love to all my reviewers; you have doubled in number and that makes me very happy and grateful. See you (write you? Read you?) soon…