Námo chuckled as he sensed yet another failed attempt to enter Arda. He felt he could almost smell the burning flesh of the misspelling's latest victim.
Vairë smiled, working silently at her loom, as she perceived her spouse's thoughts.
"Convenient, is it not, that Earth should have a molten core?"
Námo smiled as he sensed Vairë's laughter and walked over to a bare patch of wall where hung a large sheet of yellowing parchment. He picked up a piece of charcoal and made a mark on the left-hand column.
"And that makes one hundred and fifty," he said quietly, grinning.
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Disclaimer: All rights, whether legal, moral, intellectual or theoretical, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.
A/N: In case you haven't figured it out, this spot of insanity is inspired by the fact that I frequently see Middle-earth spelled as "Middle Earth", and girl-falls-into-Middle-earth stories are so very common. This is just humor, it shouldn't be taken seriously and is not meant to offend anyone. If you don't know who Námo or Vairë are go read The Silmarillion.