Princess Memorie woke up in her room in Rivendell, home of the elves, and sat up, tossing her long, silky silver hair over her shoulder.
WAIT ONE DAMN MINUTE. Who wrote that?
Who do you think? And you really need to stop cursing.
Okay, for one thing, I do not just "wake up". Perhaps something like "Memorie was awakened by the annoying drone of her alarm, grabbed the first blunt object that her fingers encountered, and smashed the stupid thing before going back to sleep for another two hours".
Absolutely not. Elven princesses do not—
I'm not finished yet! For another, I do not "toss" my hair. There is no practical reason to "toss" one's hair, and it's one of those things that girls do all the time in stories and almost never in real life. But before I start ranting about that, my third problem: aren't you forgetting the part where we make up my background and everything?
I've already made it up.
I should be used to this by now, and I should be keeping my cool better, but I have to admit that makes me mad. How can she have made up my back story without even telling me?
My gosh, you're argumentative. If you really want to know, I'll tell you. First of all, both of your parents were elves.
Greeeeaaaat. Elves. My favorite people. But I guess I could put up with even elves if they were my parents and loved me. But "were"? What are they now? Artichokes?
They're dead. They died protecting you from Sauron when you were a baby.
Half-dreams, half-dreams floating in my head of hugs and bedtime stories and lullabies, of good advice, shoulders to cry on, a source of support - gone. Gone with her words. How can she kill them? How can she possibly kill them? They're people, aren't they? They would love me, love my frizzy orange hair, love my fascination with medieval weaponry, love my - okay, so maybe they wouldn't love my profanity. But they'd forgive me for it. That's what parents are for, right? For being your voice of reason and helping you with your homework and loving you unconditionally, even with all your little flaws and oddities?
You want parents so they can give you advice and help you with your homework? Are you even aware of just how boring a story about homework would be?
The story doesn't have to be about homework! Maybe I set out on a quest, and my parents are so worried about my safety that they decide to go with me? It could be funny! Like if we're staying at an inn, and some guy starts hitting on me, and my dad beats him up?
Memorie, I'm trying to make you an interesting character. Making you an orphan will make you more interesting.
But if I'm an orphan, who raised me?
Elrond. He took you in as his own daughter.
That doesn't make sense. Doesn't he have the fate of the world to worry about? If I was him, I would've just given me to some other elves or something. He already has kids.
Stop whining, would you? We've already wasted a whole page. Enough talking. We're starting. Now.
Before I have time to protest, I'm in Rivendell, in a room. I wish I could tell you what kind of room, but noooo, she hasn't bothered to describe it except that it's "pretty". A soft white carpet? Don't ask me. A skylight letting in beams of sunlight? Anyone's guess. A solid gold go-cart with a built-in snow cone machine? Could be, for all anyone knows.
Before I have time to adequately consider just how cool it would be to own a solid gold go-cart with a built-in snow cone machine (or realize that, sadly, I'll find neither go-carts nor snow cones in Middle Earth), I'm interrupted by an elf (Augh! Elves! I can't stand them!) who tells me that "my father summons me".
Who the hell…? Oh yeah, Elrond.
As I follow the stupid elf through the halls, I take a moment to think. Now, you have to understand, patience isn't my strong suit. Far from it. I'm not a particularly generous person, so it takes a lot of willpower not just to give up and decide to hate everyone. But then I think about it. I'm not that good at being kind, but I could try. I could give everybody at least a chance. If they're stupid or annoying or obnoxious, well, screw them, but I'll at least give them a chance. You cannot imagine what willpower deciding this takes. I'm a horribly judgmental person who finds it hard to be anything but abrasive and cynical in moods like this, but I'll try. I'll show her that being strong isn't about swords - it's about doing things that you have trouble with. Giving the elves a chance makes me stronger than she ever will, and it makes me kind of proud. Maybe I'm an okay person after all. Of course, I still don't think I'm anything extraordinary, but since I don't want much out of life - just a simple, loving family, my husband doesn't have to be a warrior or a prince or even handsome as long as he's nice - and a comfortable place to live - I might have a shot. Maybe I'll find a guy who can put up with me. Maybe a friendly auto mechanic or something - I always liked technical stuff. It's interesting. But oh, wait, I forgot - no cars in Middle Earth.
"Pardon me, my lady - who might you be?"
I look up.
I see an elf looking at me from a doorway with polite curiosity and something like admiration in his eyes. Bright blue eyes. Shimmering golden hair.
OH, GOD, SAVE ME!
The giving-everyone-a-chance plan didn't last long, I reflect, panting, as my mad, stumbling, ungraceful dash carries me into some unidentified room. I slam the door and lean back against it, trying to recover my breath and wait for my heart rate to slow down. I really need to get in better shape, especially if my author expects me to walk all the way across Middle Earth. I'm not much of a runner.
Wait? Where's Legolas?
Damn. She found me.
Where is he?
Boiling his head, I hope.
How can you judge him after three seconds? What's wrong with him?
Nothing, so far, but I'm not taking any chances. I saw the way he was looking at me, and Mr. Showoff Elf-Boy can keep his perfectly manicured hands off of me, thank you very much. And come to think of it, if she likes him, there must be something wrong with him. I can't imagine the two of us liking the same guy.
"You haven't seen Memorie, have you?"
I freeze. It's an older male's voice, outside the door. Then another one speaks, and I can tell by the voice it's Legolas.
"No, she just ran off as soon as I spoke to her. I have no idea why. I didn't do anything except say hello."
"Perhaps she finds you attractive," the voice I'm guessing is Elrond's suggests with a hint of a smile in the tone.
"Perhaps," Legolas laughs. "Shy girls are so charming."
Wait. One. Damn. Minute.
He thinks I find him ATTRACTIVE? He thinks I'm in LOVE with him? BASTARD! Stupid, vain, stuck-up, egotistical bastard! Okay, I have a perfect right to hate him now. Second chances? To hell with second chances. The elves are a bunch of supercilious idiots, and all I want is out of here.
"Lady Memorie?"
It's that elf, back again. He wants me to come to the council. I'm catching hints that my author might send Legolas to look for me if I skip out on it, so I go, planning to get a seat as far from him as possible.
Naturally, this lands me sitting by the dwarves. One of them is telling a funny story, and I try to scoot my chair over to listen, then discover the stupid thing is fixed in the ground. Oh well. He notices I'm paying attention and talks a little louder so I can hear.
When he gets to the punch line, the other dwarves all roar with mirth, and I laugh delightedly, but for some reason my hand comes up to cover my mouth and all that really comes out is a polite giggle. My author again, maybe?
The dwarf, who has friendly, dancing brown eyes and thick brown hair with just the slightest hint of red, finally gets a good look at me. I smile nervously, but to my distress, I see him frown in slight disapproval, run me over with his eyes, then turn back to his companion.
Why are there tears swimming in my eyes? It's not as if I care about these stupid Middle-Earth idiots. I don't want them to like me. I want them to hate me. As a matter of fact, the first chance I get, I'm going to do something mean to that stupid dwarf. That'll show him.
Before I can adequately contemplate my revenge, Elrond's talking, droning on about Mordor or something. What do I care? Until, that is, a few minutes later, when he calls up a small, brown-haired hobbit who puts on the central table the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.
I can tell the eyes of others are on it too - especially that arrogant Gondorian man, damn him - but none are fixed on it so closely as mine. Almost ironic how small it is, how delicate - the smooth golden lines belie the depth of the power hidden in this little thing. With this small piece of jewelry, this little circle of metal almost resembling a wedding band, one could rule the world. I could rule the world. I could even defeat my author - get rid of her, get rid of this stupid story, and create my own world, a world where I'm a master of myself and nobody can force me to do things I don't want to.
I almost laugh out loud, laugh from pure intoxicating exhilaration, the kind only sudden hope and sudden energy can bring on, but I manage to keep myself quiet. A gray-robed, gray-bearded man notices and glances at me shrewdly, and I smile innocently back until he looks away and I can laugh quietly to myself again. Surely my author intends to send me with the Fellowship. Why else would she bring me to the Council? And if I'm with the Fellowship, with it for the months and months it takes to travel, I'll have my chance to take the Ring. I've never been so glad that my author made me beautiful and charming - those stupid men won't know what's hit them, and before they manage to disentangle themselves from the sticky sweet webs I spin around them, I'll be off and free with the Ring on my finger, and my author will wish she'd never set pen to paper and begun this inane narrative.
By the time I bring myself back from my daydreams, everybody's fighting about something. I shake my head and blink just in time to hear Frodo start yelling. He has a surprisingly powerful voice for a hobbit, and everyone shuts up to listen to him. He's volunteering to carry the Ring, and within a dizzyingly short few seconds, he's been joined by a whole group. I have to wonder if they've really considered what they're getting themselves into, or if they're simply caught up in the excitement of the moment and will regret it later.
First is an old wizard, the same one who caught me gloating earlier. I'll have to be careful around him - I can already sense that he doesn't completely trust me, and he's probably too old to fall for my wiles. I'll find a different way to deal with him.
Next to join is the ranger, who shouldn't be too much trouble, and then - I try and fail to suppress a shudder - Legolas, the tall, immaculate, golden-haired elf. He smiles at me, and I squirm uncomfortably. Luckily, he's distracted by the dwarf, who's also joining. I try to catch his eye as he walks up, but he's not looking at me. Angry tears sting my eyes one more time, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I watch the human and the three hobbits who have been hiding become the last four members of the Nine Walkers.
At least, that's how it should have been. Once they're all assembled and all standing nicely in a row, Elrond steps forward again and casts his eyes over the remaining members of the council.
"We have Nine Walkers," he says in his booming, sports-announcer voice. Too bad there are no sports in Middle-Earth - imagine the possibilities! Hobbit basketball - it would take real talent to score! Ent golf - let's combine the slowest creatures in the world with the slowest game in the world and see how long we can make it last! Cave-troll football - now come on, who wouldn't want to see that?
But back to a less interesting subject - i.e. Elrond's speech.
"We have Nine Walkers," he announces, "Nine Walkers to set against the Nine Riders. But who, I ask you, shall we set against the One With Dark Wings - The Witch-king of Angmar?"
I blink. I blink again. Wait a moment…
What's wrong?
The Witch-king of Angmar.
What about him?
Aren't you forgetting something?
His dragon-thing? Yeah, I'm going to give you some kind of horse or something to be set against that, so it's all even.
But it's not even! Aren't you forgetting that the Witch-king is one of the Nazgûl?"
…
He is!
What do you mean?
He's the king of the Nazgûl!
So…?
So you're counting him twice!
I don't understand what you mean.
How can you not understand? It's completely simple! Look: nine riders, one of which is the Witch-king. I.e. nine total!
The Witch-king has that flying dragon thing.
I sigh and attempt to keep my calm. The Witch-king was one of the Nine Riders, but then their horses drown at the ford, and they all get flying dragon things, including him!
But there are nine Nazgûl, and the Witch-king.
No, there are nine Nazgûl total, eight normal ones and then the Witch-king, their leader.
So you're saying there are only Eight Riders?
No, there are - oh, screw it!
Can we move on now?
Fine. Just fine. Go ahead.
"Who," Elrond asks, "shall we set against the One With Dark Wings - the Witch-king of Angmar?"
"I'll go," I volunteer unenthusiastically, standing and going to join them. Legolas smiles expectantly. I dig my nails into my palms. Gimli frowns slightly. I dig them in deeper. I can feel my author smirking. I dig them in deeper yet. OUCH! I release them, surreptitiously try to rub my palms on the soft fabric of my dress a little, then cross my arms.
"Very well," Elrond says. "I fear for your safety, my dear daughter, but…"
Blah, blah, blah. Fellowship of the Ring. Very nice. The End.
I collapse on my bed, take a deep breath, and try to calm down a little. We're leaving tomorrow morning.
What fun.