Wyze Lies

by Erestor

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to The Lord of the Rings. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Thank you for reviewing! I love to hear all you have to say, though I now have cause to wonder if my plot twists are getting predictable.

Erestor.

I forgot to imitate Glorfindel's perfect, unshakable demeanor, and recoiled so sharply I nearly tipped the chair over backwards. I was halfway to the door before Arwen stopped me with a word. She shoved her glasses back on her beautiful face, and continued, "The guards would catch you, anyway."

I hovered nervously, feeling sick. "But everyone knows you aren't one of the Wyze," I said. "Everyone knows you hate the Wyze."

Arwen opened her desktop drawer and pulled out her identification. She held it up. I looked at it.

"Everyone knows wrong," said Arwen. "I'm a double agent. Sit down, please."

I sat down shakily.

"Actually," said Arwen, "even that is not true. I suppose I'm really a triple agent. The Wyze think I'm on their side. The common people think I'm on their side. But I am actually on a third side, one that will both reform the Wyze and protect the common people."

I blinked.

"Consider yourself lucky," said Arwen. "You happen to be on this third side as well, though evidently you did not realize it."

"Your majesty," I said, "how can you be on three sides?"

"The Wyze consists of quite a few Elves and Maiar," explained Arwen, "but it grows more corrupt daily. Some of us cannot bear to see something so good go so wrong, and are attempting to purify it. Our chief problem is Glorfindel. He is the one causing most of the damage, and he is much too powerful for us to simply disqualify from Wyzdom. The third side, the one you and I are on, is the side at work undermining Glorfindel and his influence."

"You aren't trying to destroy the Wyze?" I asked. I admit I was somewhat disappointed.

Arwen shook her head. "No. We are trying to restore its goodness, and" –she grinned suddenly– "its original spelling."

"Who are you? Who does the third side consist of?"

"I don't think I'm at liberty to tell you that," said Arwen, "but let's just say, we're great advocates of family unity."

"Oh," I said, realizing. "So King Elessar is on the third side as well?"

"Of course," said Arwen. "He's entered into the family, after all."

I reeled from the onslaught of surprising information, but thought rapidly and said, "I suppose the actions of Lords Elladan and Elrohir were a diversion."

Arwen nodded. "The Wyze focused on them, certain they would be the ones to attempt to overthrow the system. In doing so, the Wyze completely overlooked the efforts of my father and I." She tapped her fingers on her desk thoughtfully. "Surely you must have wondered who put Wings: The Great Balrog Conspiracy on the Internet."

"Yes, I had wondered," I said, and then exclaimed,"You did?"

"My father called for a book burning, knowing this would draw the attention of the entire realm to your writings. We find forbidden things so alluring. I posted it on the Internet where anyone could read it."

"I owe your family a great debt!" I cried.

Arwen shook her head. "Don't think of it that way," she said. "You have helped us greatly. Because of you and your theories, Glorfindel's influence is greatly weakened."

"Is there anything else I can do?" I asked, a trifle eagerly, perhaps.

"Your third book is being published in but five days," said Arwen. "On that day, Glorfindel's credibility will suffer a serious blow on two fronts. On that day, Aragorn will join the ranks of the Wyze, and there will be enough of us to topple the ruling powers. The 350th Annual Wings Debate will be the last."

I sat silently for a few minutes, delighted, but dazed. "Two fronts?" I asked eventually.

"Yes," said Arwen. "I agree to your plan. It is very good. It will catch Glorfindel entirely by surprise, and it will aid my family even more." She rose. "Erestor," she said, "I am overjoyed to have made your acquaintance. I wish you good luck and long life. Stars shine on your path."

I stood as well, bowing. "The same to you, your majesty."

"Now, you must leave before Glorfindel finds you here. He visits the palace regularly."

I took three steps toward the door, and then a last question occurred to me. I turned. "My lady," I said, "do Balrogs exist?"

Arwen, seated again, looked over the top of her glasses at me. "Of course they exist," she said.

The guards outside the door seemed surprised to see me come out of the room in one piece. I smiled at them, and set off down the hallway, heading for the courtyard where Legolas's car was parked.

As I walked, I pondered Arwen's revelations, which seemed far too good to be true, but seemed, on the whole, to make sense. I wasn't sure what to believe: the good parts or the bad parts or both or something completely different.

It seemed my fears were, in a way, correct. I was a pawn. The only reason my books and I had survived was because Lord Elrond and his family had been supporting me, and they had supported me only because I was attacking Glorfindel and revealing the corruption of the Wyze. I had been inadvertently aiding their cause, and so they in turn had aided me. Because of my books, people would be eager for reform. Glorfindel would not be able to resist a takeover by the House of Elrond.

Arwen had told me there were Balrogs. She might have been speaking the truth, or she might have been making a joke. Or perhaps she had said so because she was one of the Wyze, and she wasn't going to publically deviate from their beliefs until the time came. I did not know. I could not be certain.

The good news was that I had allies, and had had allies for some time. On the day my book was published, the Wyze would become the Wise again, Glorfindel would be defeated, and I would be able to live happily ever after. I could finally write the book on alien abduction.

Before I could reach the main doors to leave the palace, I heard Legolas's voice.

"Aragorn," he pleaded, "won't you reconsider? Think of your wife and children!"

"My wife and children support me whole-heartedly. I will become one of the Wyze," said the King of Gondor.

I heard Legolas sigh. "Does our friendship mean nothing to you?" he asked, sounding resigned and plaintive simultaneously. "Think of the many sacrifices we have made for each other over the years! Think of all the suffering I have endured on your account!"

"I'm sorry, Legolas," said King Elessar, "but this is something I must do."

I peered down over a balustrade and saw Legolas and Aragorn walking through the lower level of the palace together. Neither looked very happy.

I thought back to the days when Aragorn had been a child growing up in Rivendell. He had been a lot more cheerful then, but that was before he had been deluged with responsibilities. I had taught Aragorn Elven history and penmanship, two entirely unrelated subjects. I wondered if he remembered me.

Even as I wondered this, off my guard for but a moment, someone violently and unexpectedly hoisted me over the rail and flung me toward the floor. I kept my head and landed on my feet – directly in front of King Elessar.

"Erestor!" said Aragorn, remembering me.

"Run!" cried Legolas.

I suspected Aragorn was on my side, but I wasn't supposed to know that, and I didn't want to betray him, so I ran.

I ran down a hall, through a door, down another hall, out a main door into a courtyard, and right into Glorfindel, who was walking into the palace carrying a briefcase.

"Erestor!" said Glorfindel, lunging at me.

I slipped from his grasp, agile with desperation. I thought I had escaped unscathed for about two seconds, and then Glorfindel grabbed my scarf and gave it a savage yank, half-throttling me. Wearing a scarf had evidently been a bad idea.

Glorfindel attempted to drag me toward the palace by the scarf, but I managed to untie it. Before he could do anything else, I dashed off.

I was suddenly amused to think that no one had expected me to appear in King Elessar's home, except perhaps Arwen. Even she hadn't expected me so soon. I was catching everyone by surprise. I was being unpredictable. Unpredictability is power.

I ran out to Legolas's car, and, moments later, Legolas was beside me, twisting his keys in the ignition and looking panicky.

Legolas sped out of the courtyard, nearly running over some people who had come to chip paint off his car for souvenirs.

I did not want to distract Legolas as he drove around at such high speeds, so I sat quietly and waited for him to relax and slow down. I thought about how easily my attacker had tossed me off the side of the balcony. I decided I needed to eat more.

"Someone tried to kill you!" said Legolas. "Or else," he asked doubtfully, "you did that nosedive toward Aragorn intentionally?"

"No," I said. "Someone knocked me over the side, but he might not have done it on purpose."

Actually, no. The whole thing had been very purposeful. The only way the incident could have been an accident was if the would-be assassin had been trying to kill someone other than myself.

"Who do you think it was?"

"I don't know. It wasn't Glorfindel, because I ran into him on the way out," I said. "Anyway, it wasn't his style. He usually threatens me first, because he likes confirmation of his scariness."

"Then you must have enemies everywhere," said Legolas.

"Whoever it was wasn't trying to kill me," I said. "There was no way the fall could have killed an Elf. He probably just wanted to draw attention to me so I would be caught."

(Much later, I discovered that the perpetrator of the attack had been one of the many Gondorian Elf-haters who resented my very existence. It had absolutely nothing to do with my writing books about the Wyze. At the time, I was not aware this was the case, so the incident made me even more jumpy.)

"Aragorn is adamant," Legolas informed me miserably, as we drove through the city. "He insists on becoming one of the Wyze."

"It might not be such a bad thing," I said calmly, having recovered my Glorfindel-poise. "I have some good news for you."

I told him the good news. Legolas was delighted.

"It makes sense," he said, "though I wish Aragorn had told me himself."

"Do you think," I asked, "that perhaps Arwen was lying, to lull us into a false sense of security?"

"Do you think," asked Legolas, "that everyone is out to get you?"

I pondered this. "Probably not," I said.

"There you are," said Legolas. "Stop worrying. Be happy." It was well and good for him to tell me this; after all, he had just discovered his friend was on his side. I had been nearly killed twice in the space of a minute.

"I have to get my hair cut, and then someone's interviewing me for a Gondorian fashion magazine," said Legolas. "Can I drop you off somewhere?"

I found Legolas to be rather perplexing at times. His moods swung all over the place, and his personality executed 180 degree turns at unexpected moments. I knew he was a warrior. I knew he was one of the bravest Elves I would ever meet. But he actually enjoyed being pampered and photographed and interviewed, and he got his hair cut in a shop, instead of doing it himself at home. I hear a lot of the Silvan Elves are like that. Completely bipolar. Not like the Noldor, who are all more or less insane by human standards, but better at hiding it most of the time.

Legolas dropped me off at my apartment, waved farewell, and drove away. I watched him go, still puzzled. I trudged inside, hands shoved in my pockets.

Once inside, I realized I had left my book on a bench somewhere outside Aragorn's home. I would never know if the main characters triumphed over the evil sociopath and his demented minions. I worried about the fate of the main characters as I microwaved some soup. I was used to worrying about myself, so worrying about other people, even if they were fictional, made a nice change.

Eating my soup, I began worrying about myself again. I reminded myself that I hadn't won yet. Victory seemed near, but it is at this sort of time that people get overconfident and make costly mistakes. I wanted to avoid this, so I considered all the horrible things that could happen to me in the next five days. Glorfindel could still arrange to have me bumped off. Arwen could turn out to be on Glorfindel's side. Glorfindel's book could be the end of my career. My book could be shredded by critics and lampooned by the populace.

The five days passed very slowly. I languished in my apartment, eating soup and fearing the worst.

I suppose now would be a good time for me to tell you what Wyze Lies: The Necessary Myth of the Balrog-Slayers was actually about.

To put it simply, it was all about Glorfindel.

I had noticed, in my previous adventures, that Glorfindel was the only member of the Wyze who really seemed to care about my fate. The others were far more apathetic when it came to myself and my books. This meant that Glorfindel was the only one who wanted to perpetuate all the lies about Balrogs.

Why would Glorfindel want to do this?

The answer is twofold. For one thing, Glorfindel evidently enjoyed watching people get overexcited during the Annual Wings Debates. For another thing, the mystery and glamor surrounding Glorfindel owed its debt mainly to the supposed fact that Glorfindel had died killing a Balrog. If Balrogs do not exist, then Glorfindel could not have died killing one. In that case, Glorfindel was a perfectly ordinary Elf, though amazingly devious. He had not died to protect his people. He had not been reborn to help Lord Elrond and bring peace and happiness and fashion-sense to the people of Middle-earth.

Glorfindel had probably come to power through claiming to kill a Balrog. He had stayed in power because people thought he was a hero. Therefore, the myth of the Balrog-slayers was necessary, at least in Glorfindel's eyes. Without it, Glorfindel would lose almost everything that mattered to him.

I hoped my book would play a part in undermining Glorfindel's credibility.

On the day of the Annual Wings Debate, I rose early, skipped breakfast, despite all my resolutions to eat more, and sat and stared at the door, willing myself to get up and walk through it.

This is a defining moment in my life, I thought. I can go to the bookstore and sign copies of Wyze Lies or I can crawl under my bed and hope tomorrow comes extra soon.

Then it struck me. If the defining moment in my life is to walk through a door, what kind of ridiculous life have I been living? I decided that my life had probably been defined already. Therefore, whether or not I walked out the door, something bad would happen to me. I couldn't imagine my life having been defined for the better.

I decided to face my fate boldly, and boldly walked out the door.

I walked down to the bookstore, which had not yet opened. Glorfindel's fans were beginning to stir, to pack up their tents and choke down quick breakfasts. I sneaked through their midst without detection.

The owner of the bookstore, a jolly, enthusiastic man, greeted me at a side door and whisked me through it. He was even more jolly and enthusiastic than usual. His smile was so broad it threatened to fall off his face, and he rubbed his hands together in a way that communicated his zeal for selling lots of copies of my book and thereby making a fortune and becoming renowned in book-selling circles.

I was being cynical that morning. Maybe he was simply glad to see me.

"Come in, come in," said the bookstore-owner, his breath fogging in the air. "I've set up a little table at which you can sign your books."

Entering the bookstore, I was immediately confronted by a very large display that unabashedly featured copies of Glorfindel's book (Paranoia and Confusion: An Analytical Look at Erestor and his Works of Fiction). Evidently the bookstore owner wasn't even going to attempt to be unbiased.

The perpetrator of this atrocity cleared his throat and said, "Your desk is this way."

It was. To describe the desk as a'little' one was to indulge in a moment of barefaced hyperbole.

The final straw was the music. Even as I stood, looking without surprise at the nearly microscopic desk at the back of the bookstore, the radio came on. A version of 'The Defenestration of Erestor' was playing. It was being sung by a girl with a breathless voice that invariably makes me think of pink bubble gum and lip gloss. The insult in all this was impossible to overlook.

I never yell when I am angry. It is not dignified to yell. Glorfindel, I have noticed, never yells.

"Are you sure this is my desk?" I asked.

The man nodded.

"Really? This isn't Glorfindel's desk?"

He shook his head.

"I believe you have made a mistake," I said. "Please allow me to correct it."

The owner of the bookstore looked at me nervously, the jolly smile slipping from his lips, as well it should.

In only twenty minutes, I had bestowed upon Glorfindel the desk that had previously been for me, dragged Glorfindel's desk to a better location, and arranged a display of my own books. As I had done this, the owner of the bookstore had trotted behind me, voicing pitiful arguments, but I refused to back down. 'The Defenestration of Erestor' reminded me of previous ignominious defeats, in which I had panicked and fled, when instead I should have fought back.

It was a pity Glorfindel had chosen to arrive fashionably late. If he had been earlier, he probably could have stopped me.

I sat down at my new desk. The bookstore owner had kindly provided Glorfindel with fine quality ink and pens. I arranged these on the top of the desk, and sat and waited.

Glorfindel arrived ten minutes later. He was wearing a long, dark coat, gloves, and my black and red scarf. He smiled at me. "There's quite a crowd out there," he said, pulling the gloves off finger by finger. "Don't worry. I saw some fans of yours," he added, in a reassuring tone. "Some are waving signs about black helicopters and UFOs, and some are waving signs advocating anarchy. It's hard to miss them."

I wanted to say something terribly cutting, but Glorfindel had already glided to his desk. He looked at it for a moment. He looked at my desk. He summoned the bookstore owner with a wave of his hand. The bookstore owner wiggled like a worm on a hook as Glorfindel spoke to him, but then he looked relieved and slithered away.

He returned with a large red tablecloth, and draped it over Glorfindel's desk, causing it to look very elegant and individualistic. Glorfindel removed his coat and my scarf. He sat behind the desk, looking very elegant and smug.

The doors to the bookstore opened, and the people came flooding inside, waving their signs and chanting slogans. They snatched books from the displays and formed two long, curling lines. One line led to my desk; the other line led to Glorfindel's desk. I couldn't tell which line was longer. It looked to be rather a close thing.

Soon I was signing books frantically. At first I tried to say something to the person who was kindly purchasing my book, and the person tried to say something back, but it was soon apparent that this wouldn't work. Those in line viciously elbowed purchasers aside, thrusting their books at me and saying loud, frantic things about balrogs, conspiracies, and alien invasions. Glorfindel seemed to be having the same problem. Probably his fans weren't talking about alien invasions though.

It began with a few jeers, a little outburst of mocking laughter. The next thing I knew, one of my fans was beating one of Glorfindel's fans over the head with a poster decrying the government, Glorfindel was watching in bemusement, and a group of his fans were rallying to attack three unkempt men who claimed to be ufologists.

The scene became very violent, very quickly.

I felt guilty, since it had been my fans who had initiated the onslaught. Interestingly, they also seemed to be the ones who were winning. Perhaps it was because they were armed with heavier signs. I don't know. I didn't think my intervention would help matters, so I didn't do anything. I just sat and watched, horrified.

It took about three minutes before the deranged fans turned on Glorfindel and myself. One of the ufologists tried to stab Glorfindel with one of his book-signing pens. Glorfindel avoided the blow, rose from his chair, and looked around. Several of his fans limped to his side, holding bent posters and battered copies of his book.

Several conspiracy theorists joined me, and Beregond and his anarchists were soon happily engaged in fending off Glorfindel's most ardent supporters.

"What idiot arranged for us to be signing books on the same day, in the same bookstore?" demanded Glorfindel, grinning at me. Conflict brought out the best in him.

"I think it was him," I replied, pointing at the bookstore owner, who now looked completely unjolly at the sight of his bookstore being ripped apart. I bore a grudge against that man.

"Hmm," said Glorfindel. "Remind me to talk to him after all this is over."

"I will," I said, and attempted to duck and weave through the bookstore, away from the melee. The attempt didn't really work. It was too crowded. Some of my fans were still clamoring for me to sign their books, like my autograph mattered when all our lives were on the line.

"Stop this!" said a loud, authoritative voice. The anarchists, who did not like authority, did not stop. However, most people calmed down when they saw the King of Gondor and his wife enter the bookstore. The anarchists, who couldn't fight when no one was fighting them back, eventually stopped as well.

We all stood and panted for breath, faces flushed red with exertion, anger, triumph, or embarrassment.

Arwen smiled at us. She wasn't wearing her glasses. She looked amazing.

"I have a little announcement to make," she said.

TBC...