The author also don't own Yoda.
A/N: The author is very sorry for not updating in so long. She would like each and every one of you to accept her (late) holiday gift of a pair of virtual tubas. First reviewer gets the authentic ones used in the last chapter, plus a bag of virtual popcorn chicken the author received for her review of a story, yet cannot eat. (She is a vegetarian.) Review for virtual tubas and a special slashy surprise!
The author thanks Almenel for the pairing.
Travesty 3: Arwen and Éowyn
Arwen Undomiel was not a happy elf. In fact, one could go so far as to say she was unhappy. She drummed her perfectly manicured nails on her horse's mane angrily. Who did Aragorn think he was? More to the point, who did he think Arwen was? Did he think she wasn't as beautiful as Legolas? That was preposterous. Arwen, at least, was actually female.
What if she wasn't as beautiful as Legolas? A crease furrowed her perfect, Lúthien-esque, alabaster brow in worry. She would visit Aragorn in the transparent periwinkle nightgown she had packed and ask him. That was why she was on a horse, in the middle of Eru-forsaken Rohan, sporting a manicure. Arwen hoped her father wouldn't worry too much about her. She'd just go to Helm's Deep, where she knew Aragorn was, kiss some sense into the man, beat up Legolas, and then come back home. She had detailed all this in the note she'd left on her bed. Everything was all planned out.
It was raining when Arwen arrived at Helm's Deep. For some reason, elves were marching into the little fleabite fortress.
The author thought this was supposed to be bookverse.
For some reason, all the elves vanished. The gatekeepers looked puzzled. Then again, they were the type whose default state was confusion. Arwen took advantage of this and rode in the open gate.
"There hey! Lady! You are who? Permission do you have from Théoden King to enter here?" shouted one of the men.
"Oh, get your word order right," said Arwen, in no mood to be bothered by stupid gatekeepers.
Oh, fine then. Movieverse. It simplifies things.
The elves reappeared, and the gatekeepers simply nodded and waved them through, including Arwen. Whatever else that was, it was a stroke of luck, thought Arwen.
She was in. Now where was Aragorn? Arwen found a deserted stable to change in, slipped off her travel gown, and stepped into her transparent dress. She put her cloak back on, just so unwashed Rohirrim wouldn't constantly ogle her and lose the battle for not paying attention.
Not that Arwen cared about the battle. All she wanted was a little time alone with Aragorn. And there he was!
"Estel!" she cried.
"Eh?" said Aragorn. "You are who?"
"Not you too," moaned Arwen. Grabbing his cloaked arm, she dragged him into a conveniently placed shed. Valar, let me not break a nail, she prayed. She sat Aragorn down on a haystack in the shape of a bed.
Pulling off her cloak, she said, "Hello, Estel."
Arwen enjoyed watching her beloved's eyes bugging out of his head.
She did not enjoy it when the little door to the shed smashed open, leaving a frantic-looking standing in the doorway and sputtering incoherent things at the pair.
Finally, he got out, "Sit on that do not! First place it won in the Competition Straw-Sculpting All-Rohan!"
"That might sound prestigious if I knew what you were saying," muttered Arwen, with doom in her voice and fire in her eyes.
A few minutes later, all the Hornburg saw a man burst out of the roof of the abandoned shed.
"Stupid was he for going in there. Knows everybody that unsafe it is."
Then all the Hornburg, most of the Uruk-hai that were still a mile or so away, Gandalf, Éomer and his men, Treebeard, Merry, Pippin, Saruman, Quickbeam, assorted other Ents, and for some inexplicable reason, Mr. Random Haradrim, a random Haradrim in Harad, heard a crumbling sound and then a screech of despair.
"Eeek! I broke a nail!"
"Oh, pull yourself together," said Arwen.
Arwen was sick of it all. She decided to cut to the point. Letting a strap of her dress fall suggestively over her shoulder, she said in her best and most grammatically correct Elvish soap opera voice, "Whom do you love, Estel? Legolas or me?"
"Er…uh…er…uh…er…" said Aragorn.
"There hey!" said a soldier. "Lady! In the Glittering Caves supposed to be you are!"
"Er…uh…er…uh…er…uh…er…uh…"
"Fine," snapped Arwen. "I'm going. Going I'm. Oh, and Estel, when you do figure it out, come and tell me." She stalked off.
"Lady! In the other direction the Glittering Caves are," said Arwen's helpful soldier guide. Guide soldier.
Arwen made a rude hand gesture not normally associated with Elves.
Then she flounced off to the Glittering Caves, inspecting her dress for rubble.
In spite of all her aesthetic principles, Arwen had to admit that the Glittering Caves were…impressive. They were just a bit tacky and glittery for her. And the huddling women and snot-faced kids kind of ruined the image.
Wait. Who in the name of the Valar was that?
"What the hell do you think you're doing here, Legolas? I thought you were supposed to be out there fighting to defend the fleabite and all the backwards-talking people in it!"
Legolas stared at her. Several mothers grabbed their children and pulled them away from Arwen. She glared at them dramatically.
Finally, one woman got up the courage to whisper helpful advice into Arwen's ear. Except they were all avoiding Arwen like the plague, so she cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted in the Elf's general direction.
"THE LADY ÉOWYN, SHIELDMAIDEN OF ROHAN THAT IS. THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN TO GUIDE SHE IS HERE. MIGHTY UPSET ABOUT IT SHE IS, TOO."
"I'm sorry," said Arwen. "You reminded me of a…girl I know. The hair."
Éowyn nodded. "You mean Legoblocks? She's a girl? I wasn't sure."
Arwen was in heaven. The woman could actually string together a coherent sentence with words in their correct places. She went over to sit by Éowyn. I'll show Mr. Scruffy Rangerman that I, too, can have an affair with a blonde. See how he likes that.
So Arwen said, "I love you."
Éowyn looked around. "Who?"
Time for the grammatically correct Elvish soap opera. "Whom. You, you gorgeous piece of blonde-ness that I just met five seconds ago." And then she kissed her. Take that, Aragorn.
At this point, the author would like to offer a dissertation on brass instruments. She has decided that they really hinder the romantic potential of her stories, so she resolves not to use them for a bit and see how it turns out.
Why is there a bassoon sticking out of my mouth? wondered Arwen.
As Arwen and Éowyn deepened the—er—bassoon-lock, several Rohirric mothers averted their eyes and covered those of their children. A few of the dumb little things couldn't resist the temptation to look, however, and were scarred for life. For one of them, it was enough of a shock to qualify as a tragic past, and she went on to star in a number of Mary Sue stories.
After many cinematic explosions and a couple graphic deaths and one wizard riding down a hill, Aragorn had come to a conclusion.
Arwen sat in the caves, counting her bruises. She'd never realised how pointy rocks were before.
"Arwen!" called Aragorn. "I've decided!"
"Twenty-three," said Arwen.
"I love you, Arwen," he said. "I mean, Legolas is a hunk of sheer manly blonde Elf-ness, but he's nothing compared to you. You are the ultimate hunk of sheer manly brunette—"
Arwen and Éowyn simultaneously hit him over the head with their bassoons.