Okey-dokey, here we go again! Hello to the new peeps that have found this small corner of madness! *waves* Instead of answering reviews I've got some other things to say. Look, a cover! Isn't it pretty/creepy? It's a picture of a mural from my school that I played around with using filters and mirror effects until I got that. Also, I lent a friend my pen-drive, completely forgetting that there was a copy of Disco in the Deep saved on it. She didn't read it but she saw the title and she was like "What on earth are you writing?" Hehe.
Anyways, here is a whole chapter for Glorfindel. Because the poor lamb deserves to be visited again.
Glorfindel winced as light streamed into his tiny prison cell.
"Good mornin', good mornin'! We've talked the whole night through! Good mornin', good mornin' to yoooooooooooooooooooooooou!" an orc warbled as it came in. "The Dark Lord will now see you," it informed him and began to prod him with a long stick until he stood and walked out the cell.
The orcs had captured him in Southern Mirkwood and then brought him south to Mordor. He had spent the last few weeks in a dark cell in Barad-dûr wondering what, in the name of all the Valar, his fate was going to be. They had simply chucked him in this cell and occasionally thrown in coconuts to sustain him.
The inside of Sauron's citadel was very strange. Large rooms appeared to have been gutted of whatever torture machines had been inside them and were now full of mirrors and bars set at about waist-high. Lines of orcs in ballet shoes and legwarmers were against the bars, raising and lowering their legs and arms.
It was a terrifying sight.
Eventually he was prodded into a small office. The Mouth of Sauron was sitting behind a desk. It was a neatly and orderly desk, with a nameplate that said Mouth and a small plaque attached to the front of the desk that read I am here to help! The Mouth didn't particularly look like it wanted to help; it was too busy filing its claws into points.
"Prisoner to see the Dark Lord," the orc said. The Mouth clicked its tongue against its teeth and pressed a button on the intercom sitting on the desk.
"Glory-fondle to see you, sir. The pointy-eared Elvish bastard?" it said in a bored voice.
There was a whirring and a small opening appeared in the wall. A Palantir sat on a cushion inside, the Eye of Sauron glowing across the surface.
I SEE YOU... the voice boomed through Glorfindel's mind.
"The Dark Lord can see you," the Mouth translated helpfully.
OH, SOD OFF YOU INSUFFERABLE WINDBAG. GO MAKE SOME COFFEE OR SOMETHING.
The Mouth obediently stood up and shuffled through another door.
OI, ELF-LORD. PUT YOUR HAND ON THE PALANTIR SO WE CAN TALK PROPERLY.
"Uh, no thanks. I don't want you to twist my ideals and turn me into one of your puppets," Glorfindel replied nervously. The Eye rolled.
WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR MIND? I PROMISE TO NOT BRAINWASH YOU OR ANYTHING!
"Alright. If you promise," he said and laid a hand on the surface of the Palantir. He felt a surge of power through his palm and trembled as his consciousness was dragged from his body. Upwards it rushed until it burst forth into a vaulted room of shadow. There Sauron waited; in the form he had used as Annatar.
His eyes narrowed as Glorfindel's spirit entered.
"What the bloody hell is happening out there?!" he barked.
"I'm not sure. It is rather entertaining though," Glorfindel said to irk him.
"It is not entertaining! Look at my soldiers! I slaved for hours to make them into a worthy dark rabble and look what has happened!" he howled. The floor rippled and an image spread forth like a reflection in a pond.
It was one of the many rooms Glorfindel had seen on his way to the office. These orcs were not raising their legs up and down against a bar however. They were encircled around a particularly foul-looking Uruk standing on a chair.
And by foul-looking; a nauseating, putrid, pungent, revolting Uruk. Glorfindel was completely relieved that he could not smell him through the Palantir.
He was caked in mud, or possibly excrement, with plants and moss actually growing out of him. And the singing...
It was possibly the worst that Glorfindel had ever heard.
"The name on everybody's lips is gonna be Toxie! The Uruk raking in the bits is gonna be Toxie! I'm gonna be a celebrity! That means somebody everyone knows! They're gonna recognize my eyes, my hair, my teeth, my plants, my toes!" it was howling.
Glorfindel could not bring himself to look at Toxie's toes.
"You really think that that is natural?" Sauron asked drily.
"No," Glorfindel admitted. "Uruk-hai do not usually have plants growing out of them."
"You test my patience, Elf-Lord," Sauron growled.
The vision slid sideways to another room. This one had very little light, save for a single lantern in the centre. The orcs wore black cloaks over their golden tunics and shimmied everywhere around the chamber at random, sending small rays of golden light bouncing around the room.
"You show the lights that stop me turn to stone! You shine it when I'm alone! And so I tell myself that I'll be strong! And dreaming when they're gone!" they trilled completely out of tune.
"You might want to invest in a vocal coach," Glorfindel said. Far away, he felt the Palantir grow hot under his hand as Sauron's rage slowly rose.
"Who is doing this?" Sauron growled.
"I think you know," he replied. "I know you have been watching the Fellowship. You know who is doing this."
The floor rippled again and the Fellowship swam into view. They were camped out by a river, all looking extremely miserable as they sheltered in their cloaks. Except for Galabríawenúthien. A small ray of sunshine was managing to shine on her face and she was bone-dry whilst the others were soaked through. The ray of sunshine still managed to follow her even as she moved around the camp.
"She is the source of this evil," Sauron said darkly.
"Agreed. She isn't one of yours?"
"Of course not! Why would I create anything that annoying?"
"So... how do we get rid of her? The Wizards are useless. Do you have anything that could help to defeat her?"
"No. No thing. But I know of someone who could possibly help us."
An image formed for the final time on the flagstones. It hovered above the city of Minas Tirith before diving like a bird of prey and zooming through the streets. Into the archives it shot and focused upon the Keeper of the Archives. She was a woman, stooped and haggard with age, with a squint of the severely short-sighted and an expression that could singe hair.
"I have been watching her for some time," Sauron said thoughtfully. "She appears to be just an ordinary woman but she knows more than one would expect and she occasionally mutters to herself in a strange and crude language I have never heard before. She may know some answers. Then again, she might just be a crazy old lady."
"Fine. I will go and speak to her," Glorfindel said. "Just one more thing, if I may ask."
"If you must."
"Why are we talking through the Palantir? Do you not have a physical body?"
Momentarily, an expression flashed across the Dark Lord's face. Was it... sheepishness?
"My current form is terrifying. It would blow your sanity out as easily as blowing out a candle," he said flatly. Glorfindel's eyebrows raised but he did not challenge the lie. Let the Dark Lord have his little secrets.
The Black Gate creaked open slowly just wide enough to allow Asfaloth and Glorfindel through. The Elf-lord reined in his horse and looked over his shoulder into the depths of Mordor. He was one of the few beings ever to be allowed to freely ride out. He turned to the front again and his eyes took in the band of orcs merrily painting the Black Gate a lovely fuchsia colour.
Asfaloth began to walk forward and Glorfindel sighed. He didn't exactly want the Land of Shadows to return to normal but surely anything would be better than this.
The small fluffy white bunny hopped out of one of the many rooms of Barad-dûr and peeked carefully from left to right. Its velvety nose twitched nervously. Nothing. It made a break for it across the tiles.
"ERMAHGERD! BUNNY!" a voice screeched. Frammit.
The bunny was unceremoniously scooped up and squeezed against the orc's chest. It was petted hard and gave the orc an enormous kick in the ribs in an attempt to get away.
"He's ticklin' me! He wuvs me!" the orc crowed in delight. "I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him and pat him and pet him and rub him and caress him!"
The bunny began to tremble with anger.
GEORGE?! SHE-ELF, YOU SHALL RUE THE DAY YOU FORCED ME INTO THIS PATHETIC FORM! it screamed.
"Come on, George, let's find you a hutch!" the orc warbled. It happily carted the squirming bunny towards its quarters, not realising in the slightest who happened to be in its arms.
OK, sound can't be transmitted through Palantiri but let's ignore that, shall we? Allow me that one uncanonical detail. That one in the many in here...
Next time, the fate of that other favourite of the LOTR fan-fiction author - The Girl in Middle Earth...