Strange Alliances

by Erestor

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or the Harry Potter series. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

'And immediately he took the form of a vampire, great as a dark cloud across the moon...'

- J.R.R. Tolkien, 'The Silmarillion'

Fëanor had only been in the kitchen of Barad-dûr for forty-six seconds, but already he was near his wit's end.

In those forty-six seconds he had:

-entered the kitchen,

-been attacked by five Orcs,

-fought off the Orcs with a ladle and a kitchen knife,

-killed the Orcs,

-and discovered that there was no food for him to cook for breakfast.

The kitchen was bare. The shelves were desolate. The cupboards were empty.

While there was no food to be found, the kitchen contained plenty of mice, rats, cockroaches, spiders, and other assorted evil insects and mysterious rodents. Perhaps they had eaten all the food. Or perhaps they were being bred so that they could be the food. Fëanor neither knew nor cared.

"This is so unhygienic," he muttered, understated as always.

Fëanor was an Elf of many accomplishments, but his inventions and ideas had been overshadowed by his creation of the silmarils, and the ensuing kinslayings. Nevertheless, he was renowned among chefs for designing the ingenious device known as the spatula. Spatulas are incredibly useful things, far more useful than silmarils. With a spatula, one can spread icing on cakes, scrape mixtures out of bowls, and perform the well-known 'Spectacular Spatula Trick'.

At that moment, Fëanor did not feel very inventive. He felt gloomy and despondent, and was annoyed at himself for getting into such a mess.

Fëanor saw a lone barrel oozing in its corner, and made his way towards it. The barrel was labeled Grewl. He pulled the lid off, and peered inside. Then he clapped the lid back on, sat down on a table and quietly battled despair.

"What a heartwarming sight," said Sauron from the doorway. "Did the five Orcs give you much trouble?"

Fëanor looked at the corpses on the kitchen floor. "No, not much," he said.

Sauron sighed. "See?" he asked. "When confronted by minor odds, they die like flies. Killing them may be all fun and games to you, but raising them to get slaughtered by overly-aggressive Elves isn't quite so delightful. Please bear that in mind."

"I," said Fëanor, "am not a minor odd."

"No, you are very odd," said Sauron, "but a most exceptional warrior nonetheless."

Fëanor narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"Only that I admire your skill," said Sauron rather blandly. "Killing five Orcs with a ladle and a kitchen knife is quite an impressive feat. Fingolfir could not have done the same."

"His name was Fingolfin," Fëanor said.

"All your ridiculous Elven names sound the same anyway,"replied Sauron.

"You are right, though," said Fëanor. "Fingolfin could not have fought five Orcs at one time with a ladle and a kitchen knife."

"Of course I am right," said Sauron. "I am an excellent judge of character and skill." He smiled modestly. "I personally am sorry that your career was cut short so quickly, because there was so much more you could have accomplished."

Fëanor thought that this was probably true as well.

"But," said Sauron cheerfully, "you have been given a second chance to do great deeds. You should seize this opportunity."

"What great deeds can I do?" asked Fëanor. "The Valar watch me constantly."

Sauron rolled his eyes. "Yes, they do have a strange fascination with watching us lesser creatures, don't they? The two of us may yet be given the chance to break free from their stifling presence. And then..." His voice trailed away.

"Then what?" asked Fëanor, after a few moments.

Sauron smiled. "I do not know exactly what will happen then, but I am certain that it will be a lot of fun. For me, at least. Now, how are the culinary arts progressing, my chef?"

Fëanor blinked at the subject change, but asked, "What is 'grewl'?"

"How should I know?" asked Sauron. "I am a Dark Lord, not a connoisseur of fine foods."

"'Grewl' is not a fine food, from what I have seen of it," said Fëanor. "Looks more like poison to me."

"Are you suggesting that there is nothing to eat?" asked Sauron. "Because I came down for a snack, and I hate being disappointed."

"You can have some grewl if you like," said Fëanor. "I don't care."

"I don't want any," said Sauron. "I want something nice for a change."

Fëanor did not often feel nervous, but he still found the sight of Sauron licking his lips rather disturbing. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

"I don't need too much," said Sauron, taking a step forward. His teeth were beginning to look sharper and sharper. "Just a little. Just a few small sips."

Fëanor wished that he had a spatula at hand, because he could have done some damage with it. "What are you talking about now?" he demanded.

"Blood," said Sauron, surprised that Fëanor had not realized. "Elven blood is so much better than mortal blood." He inched closer.

"You said you weren't a connoisseur," said Fëanor, looking for weapons.

"Not of fine foods," said Sauron.

Mandos and Lórien walked down to the kitchen to look for something to eat for breakfast. They did so with some trepidation, certain of what they would find and afraid to face it.

When they reached the kitchen, they did not find breakfast. That did not surprise them. Instead of breakfast, they found chaos. That did not surprise them either.

Fëanor was perched on the top of a kitchen cabinet, and Sauron was standing on the kitchen table, trying to sink his fangs into the Elf's ankle. Lots of furniture had been upended, and culinary equipment lay scattered on the floor, among the corpses of Orcs.

"...What exactly is going on?" asked Mandos.

Fëanor heaved another heavy pot at the Maia, who ducked. "He is trying to drink my blood," said the kinslayer.

"Oh," said Lórien. "Did you manage to cook anything?"

"No," said Fëanor. "How can I? The moment I set foot on the floor, Sauron will go for my jugular."

"I won't," said Sauron sulkily. He got off the table. "I'd rather eat something else anyway."

"Is there anything else to eat?" asked Mandos.

"All there is to eat is grewl, and it would be the death of us," said Fëanor, staying where he was.

Mandos and Lórien sat down at the table, as if hopeful that this action would make food magically appear upon it. Sauron sat down across from them, and slumped pathetically in his chair. "I'm so hungry," he whimpered.

"I don't see how you can be," said Mandos. "You ate three Orcs last night."

"Orcs are not very filling," said Sauron.

Mandos had no reply for him, so he said, "Come down from there, Fëanor. Your antics are hardly amusing."

"If you think I'm trying to be amusing–" began Fëanor ferociously.

"No need to rant," said Lórien. Like all the Valar, he had his moments of callousness. He felt cranky because he was hungry and had not slept well, since the rack had not been as comfortable as he had anticipated.

Fëanor stopped ranting and swore instead, before climbing down and glaring at them all. "You didn't have a hungry vampire coming after you," he said to Mandos. "Don't know what you would do in such a situation. Probably nothing as quick-witted as climb to safe ground."

Before Mandos could come up with a clever retort, the four of them heard Nienna shriek in terror somewhere in Barad-dûr. Lórien and Mandos leapt to their feet, ready to dash off to save their sister. Or to hide, thought Fëanor cynically.

"It sounds as though Nienna has met Elfdeath," Sauron remarked, sitting up and beginning to take notice.

"Elfwhat?"

"Elfdeath," said Sauron. "Don't worry. I do not think she eats Valar... though she has never actually met any before."

They heard the sound of someone running towards the kitchen, and then Nienna came dashing into the room, a large spider skittering after her. They were both making little squeaking noises under their breath.

"Get it away from me!" wailed Nienna, jumping onto the table in one graceful, terrified bound. "Get that nasty thing away from me!"

Sauron scooped Elfdeath up into his arms and cuddled his eight-legged pet affectionately. "There, there, my darling," he said. "Don't fret. The lady likes you."

The Valar all shuddered at the disturbing sight.

"Say hello to the nice Valar, Elfdeath," said Sauron.

"Hello!" squeaked Elfdeath, waving several black appendages at them.

The Valar looked faint.

"I think that perhaps we can have some fun together after all," said Sauron.

Nienna was in a state of shock. She stayed standing on the tabletop, while Fëanor and her brothers tried to coax her down. Sauron informed her that spiders can climb, so she wouldn't be safe up there anyway, and then he laughed and left the room, taking Elfdeath with him.

Nienna sat cross-legged on the tabletop and burst into torrents of tumultuous tears.

Mandos, Lórien, and Fëanor shuffled around, feeling awkward, and pretending to look for something to eat.

"I want to go home!" Nienna said wetly after some time had passed. She dabbed at her eyes with a trailing sleeve. "I hate spiders! Especially... big... hairy ones!"

"You did not mind them in Mirkwood," Fëanor pointed out.

"It jumped on my head," said Nienna with another strangled shriek. She had never been so traumatized in her life. "I was walking down the hall, and it jumped on my head."

"I suppose such an experience could change one's view on spiders," said Fëanor, trying to be nice. "I wonder," he added thoughtfully, "if we could catch it and eat it. It might taste good."

Nienna started crying again, even harder. Already little puddles were forming around her.

"Do you think," whispered Lórien, "that perhaps since she has not cried for many hundreds of years, she will do all her crying now?"

"I hope not," said Mandos. "We could drown."

Hearing this, Fëanor announced that he was going outside to see if there was a garden somewhere, where perhaps some sort of edible vegetation might be found. He hastily exited the room. Mandos and Lórien mournfully watched him go, but felt some mild brotherly inclination to stay with their sister and make sure she did not drown herself.

"We have been in Barad-dûr for not yet twenty-four hours," observed Mandos, "and already some of our number could be seriously emotionally damaged."

"Spiders, vampires, and food deprivation," Lórien murmured reflectively. "Whatever next?"

"Doom. It will all end in doom," said Mandos.

Fëanor searched for a garden for some time, before deciding that perhaps it would be better to first search for an exit. He had, as of that moment, been unable to find a way outside. He had encountered several groups of Orcs, and had been forced to dispatch several of them, using the kitchen knife and the spatula.

Fëanor opened a large, black, ugly door that closely resembled every other door he had come across, and found himself in Sauron's private workroom. Sauron was sitting at a desk, writing busily, with his tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth. He looked up.

"You could at least have knocked," he said. "If you had surprised me, I might have killed you."

"Do you have a garden?" asked Fëanor.

"A what?" asked Sauron.

"A garden," said Fëanor. When the Dark Lord continued to look blank, Fëanor explained, "It's a place where you grow plants and flowers and suchlike."

"Oh," said Sauron. "Yes, I remember those things. Yavanna was inordinately fond of them. Aulë was always having to design newer and better irrigation pipes for her. Thank Eru I have a selective memory."

"I'm happy for you," said Fëanor impatiently. "It's nice to know you have a selective memory, but do you have a garden?"

"Of course not," said Sauron. "I strive my uttermost to be taken seriously. Do you think people would take me seriously if I grew flowers somewhere in Barad-dûr? Anyway, gardening was the most unpleasant thing I've done in my entire existence. I would never voluntarily inflict it upon myself."

"Maybe your minions have a garden somewhere?"

"I would never inflict gardening on any of them, either."

"Would you inflict it on your worst enemy?" Fëanor was curious.

"My worst enemies are very weird people who would probably enjoy it, so, no, I would not," said Sauron. He picked up his pen and resumed writing with an air of industry.

"Could you tell me how to get outside?" asked Fëanor.

Sauron looked up with a sigh. "You, Master Elf, are becoming irritating," he said, wagging the quill pen at Fëanor reprovingly. "I realize that you have been in the company of the Valar for some time, but you must still remember what work is. Or perhaps your memory is even more selective than mine."

"The Valar work," said Fëanor without conviction.

Sauron snorted disbelievingly. "Don't be ridiculous. If the Valar worked, I would not be where I am today. I'd be sitting in the Void, wondering what hit me. And you are not allowed to tell them I said that," he added.

"Are you suggesting that you've only managed to stay ahead of the Valar thus far by working nonstop?" asked Fëanor, intrigued.

"I am suggesting that the Valar are lazy dossers," said Sauron, with a stern look. "Nothing more than that."

Fëanor tried not to grin, and nearly choked.

"While I applaud your valiant efforts," said Sauron, suppressing a smirk himself, "you are not much of a cook. Would you prefer to help me build a car?"

"A car? Like one of those very fast things we saw in Earth?" asked Fëanor.

Sauron nodded. " I've not been able to make it move at all so far, but I have hopes that eventually it will be very fast. I think that you would bring some fresh ideas to its construction."

Fëanor's eyes sparkled. "Lead me to it," he said.

TBC...