1, 2, 4, 5, 10, 20

[elvenpiratelady]

Drabble 1, for lethe_lloyd, who asked for Elrond's first sight of Glorfindel when he returns to Middle-earth

‘A ship has come out of the West.’

Cirdan’s messenger would not elaborate, and so Elrond’s mind twisted itself into knots with questions. How large was the ship? How many people had it carried? Had they fled from the West to live in painful exile, or had they come freely? A ship has come out of the West… The journey from Imladris to Mithlond seemed to take years.

When Elrond reached the Grey Havens, however, he discovered that the ship had already sailed. Manned by Teleri sailors, she had spent a night in the harbour to allow her passengers to disembark and to restock her provisions before setting sail for the West the very next day. Cirdan introduced him to the passengers, who called themselves Istari, one by one: Curumo the White, head of their order; Aiwendil the Brown, Olorin the Grey, Alatar and Pallando the Blue. The last passenger was an Elf with sunlight-coloured hair who looked at Elrond with keen interest.

‘And are you one of the Istari too, sir?’ Elrond asked later, for the Elf was quite incongruous among the grey and bearded men.

‘Alas, no, although not for lack of entreating during our voyage,’ said the stranger with a grin. ‘They said that I was too young.’

They laughed together; Olorin smiled, Curumo did not. That was Elrond’s first impression of an Elf who would become one of his greatest friends, however: the unofficial sixth member of the Istari, Glorfindel the Golden.

***

Notes: I could not find when exactly Glorfindel returned to Middle-earth, and I thought on the ship with Gandalf was as good a time as any.

***

Drabble 2, for moreth_musing, who asked for Discworld fic involving Death, the Luggage, Hex and a pair of socks

If Death had been human, he would have started to think wistfully about the days when souls were only for humanoids and the more empathetic sort of god, whereas now it seemed that everything that lived had one. He would have asserted that it began with Death of Rats, certainly, but now the strange trunk that followed the cowardly wizard around on little legs had its own Lifetimer and the thinking machine at Unseen University had written ‘+++ Big Red Lever Time +++ Query +++’. Since Death was not human, however, he only viewed this as another part of the job, albeit one he had not come across before.

The room had been locked and cordoned off by the Watch’s rope, but that was nothing to a being that could walk through walls¹. The room had been leased to one Sergius Mulch, creator and performer of Mr Fizzlewig The Disc’s First Sock Explorer And His Adventures In Rainbowland. The show had run twice a week and was well-patronised by the children of Ankh-Morpork. Mr Mulch, unfortunately, had made some bad investments and thanks to the attentions of the Breccia had come to resemble his namesake.

Death had come for Mr Mulch when he died nearly a week ago. Now he looked at the object in his hand with almost an air of embarrassment, and put it on.

Mr Fizzlewig the puppet star lay on a pile of letters. The topmost had been opened, and read: ‘Dere Mr Fizelwig i sor yor sho last weke and it was reely good but i hope ther ar crocodils next time, from Sam Vims’². Without Mr Mulch’s hand the puppet was only a sock with buttons for eyes, but the belief of children is a very powerful force, and something on the table suddenly twitched. It was blue, transparent and shaped somewhat like a snake. After a moment it picked itself up, looked around, and recoiled in surprise at seeing another puppet like it, although it was black and rather skeletal.

Slowly the ghost of Mr Fizzlewig looked down, then to the left and right, and finally back at the second puppet. It made a flapping sort of noise that is best transcribed as Flgmph?

FLGMPH, said Death of Sockpuppets³.








1. Or, indeed, the late Mr Mulch’s landlady.
2. No date given, but from the quality of the paper and the crayon writing we may assume that the younger of the two gentlemen was the author.
3. Death of Sockpuppets had begun life as one of Albert’s socks, and was now equipped with black button eyes and a black felt tongue. Its scythe was attached to it with a piece of string, and looked suspiciously like it had come from a My Little Binky toyset.

***

Notes: Discworld fic eats my brain. The Luggage having a Lifetimer is not canon; Hex's thoughts on mortality are, as shown by the annotations for Hogfather (page 236). Sergius Mulch is named after Sergey Obraztsov the Russian puppet master.

***

Drabble 3, for tears_of_nienna, who asked for Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Haldir and the Feanorians. I managed to fit in two of them.

‘Erestor,’ said Glorfindel, ‘please stop fussing over your books. You’re making me tired just from watching.’

‘Close your eyes, then,’ Erestor retorted.

Glorfindel, reclining on his bunk, smiled languidly. ‘I never said that it wasn’t a pleasant sight.’

The cabin they shared on the voyage to Valinor was cosy, to say the least. The walls were primarily made from the two bunks, the door and the porthole. There was about two feet of space between the bunks and Erestor’s books now filled most of it, as well as covering his entire bed. If Glorfindel had wanted to go outside, he would have had to wade through six cubic feet of paper. He was currently perfectly comfortable, but as the piles of books changed position without seeming to decrease, he began to wonder if they were going to spend the whole voyage in the cabin.

‘Please hurry, Erestor, it’s only another few hours until dinner is called. What would people say if we weren’t there?’

‘We’ve been missing dinners for years, and Elrond’s never said anything. These books need to be packed very carefully – some of them are from when Gil-galad was king, and I have one written by Pengolodh himself–’

‘Bugger Pengolodh,’ said Glorfindel, standing up gingerly in the sea of books. ‘He’s an utter bore, and you’ll meet him yourself soon enough.’ He kissed Erestor before the other Elf could voice more objections, and they tumbled into bed.

Fortunately for Glorfindel’s health, it was not the bed that was covered with books.

***

Erestor, once the books were packed to his satisfaction, enjoyed the voyage very much. Glorfindel put on an appearance of blitheness, but he grew more and more nervous as they neared the Blessed Lands. Erestor knew from long experience that he would never admit such a thing out loud, however, and tried to keep him distracted without asking prying questions, reasoning that meeting his friends and family, not to mention his King, after so long would of course be a nerve-wracking experience.

As it turned out, the family was no trouble at all. A crowd of golden-haired Elves descended as they left the ship, and Erestor was introduced in quick succession to Glorfindel’s father, mother, sisters, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews and cousins. A meeting with Turgon was several days away, so Erestor was left wondering why Glorfindel had been so nervous. Then the crowd dissipated, leaving only one person.

He had hair the colour of ravens’ wings, skin like porcelain, a physique to make statues envious, and was, to Erestor’s eyes, approximately seven foot tall. Glorfindel caught sight of him and went quite pale, looking overjoyed and terrified at the same time. He stood transfixed as the newcomer approached them.

‘Glorfindel!’ cried the stranger, ‘so good to see you! Valinor’s been as boring as one of Pengolodh’s talks, and I’ve only had Egalmoth to talk to about the good old days for the best part of four hundred years…’ He swept the unresisting Glorfindel into a crushing hug, then, to Erestor’s shock, kissed him full on the mouth. Evidently Middle-earth had a more conservative approach to their sort of relationship, for the Valinorean Elves barely gave them a second glance, while Elrond and Galadriel were studiously concentrating on their family reunions.

As they broke apart, Erestor stormed forward and clutched Glorfindel’s arm possessively, and the other Elf appeared to notice him for the first time. ‘Glorfindel,’ said Erestor, his voice dangerously even, ‘don’t you think you should introduce me?’

‘Err… yes, of course.’ Glorfindel’s voice almost squeaked. ‘Master Erestor of Rivendell, this is Ecthelion of the Fountain of Gondolin; Ecthelion, Erestor.’ Ecthelion smiled politely, then noticed Erestor’s vice-like grip on Glorfindel’s arm. He looked from Glorfindel to Erestor, then at Glorfindel again. He frowned slightly.

‘So nice to meet you,’ said Erestor, unsmiling. ‘A surprise, certainly.’

‘Surprise?’ Ecthelion looked at Glorfindel accusingly. ‘He never mentioned me at all?’

‘Never,’ said Erestor, ‘and I can’t think why, since you obviously know each other very well.’

‘How strange,’ mused Ecthelion, ‘because I don’t recall him ever mentioning you either…’ –his voice hardened– ‘despite the numerous opportunities to send letters on the ships leaving Middle-earth. And you two seem very close, so I can’t understand why he wouldn’t want to mention it…’

They both glared at Glorfindel. The golden-haired Elf looked very uncomfortable, and coughed delicately. ‘Perhaps we could… er… discuss this somewhere more private?’ he said, and gave them his best winning smile.

There was a silent, awkward pause.

‘Vanyar,’ said Ecthelion disgustedly. ‘If they’re not singing epic songs about flowers seen in the light of dawn, they’re having it off with anyone they can find. No offence meant, Erestor.’

‘None taken.’

Ecthelion sighed heavily. ‘I think I need a drink.’

‘I’ve got a crate of Dorwinion in my cabin,’ Erestor volunteered.

‘Actually,’ Glorfindel began, ‘I packed that–’

‘Excellent,’ said Ecthelion, ignoring him. ‘Have you got somewhere to stay, Erestor? I have a place in the mountains, and there’s plenty of room…’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘Not at all. Let’s go before any more paramours show up…’ They disappeared into the ship, reappeared with several crates, and set off down the road without a backward glance. Glorfindel, abandoned on the dock, was left wondering if there were any ships planning to sail back to Middle-earth in the near future.

***

Notes: Glorfindel, you knew this was going to happen to you one day. Saucy minx.

***

Drabble 4, for julyflame, who asked for faucets, plumbing, public bath, naked Elves, and Fëanor

Since most of Fëanor’s biographers concentrated on his Silmaril days and what came after, his earlier works often went unnoticed. Those of his family who were not dead or wandering the shores of Middle-earth were left unsure of whether or not this was a good thing. In his youth, Fëanor’s genius had been broad and far-reaching. Most notable was the fact that his works had been intended to be public, and to improve the lot of Elves everywhere. While a noble sentiment, this generally meant that the technology, when it failed spectacularly, impacted upon as many people as possible.

First there had been the revolutionary new tower made entirely of overlapping pieces of wood. Fëanor claimed that it could be dismantled and carried to wherever the user wished, and that even in the strongest winds it would not break, but would bend like a tree. Many Elves pointed out, quite reasonably, that trees already performed that job admirably, and the stonemasons of Valinor were not impressed at potentially having their livelihood taken away. That was a secondary concern to Fëanor’s family, however, as he had constructed the tower from the inside out and had neglected to build a door, claiming that it would weaken the entire structure. He insisted on having food brought to him through the windows during the week it took for Nerdanel and Finwë to convince him to come out. Eventually, the tower collapsed – Fëanor claimed that it was a spontaneous dismantling process – and that was the end of his carpentry career.

That had been followed by his revolutionary new type of brick, which lived up to his claims to be lighter and a better insulator than fired clay. A week after production had started, it also demonstrated its regrettable tendency to dissolve in the rain. His attempts at a new type of oven were stopped after the first loaves of bread had come out, as no-one could ever discover how they could be cooked inside and raw outside. His collapsible boat collapsed while at sea and the highly-amused Teleri were called upon to fish him out, his brilliantly-coloured clothing dyes ran when wet and resulted in Artanis having blue skin for a month afterwards, and his new type of lamp oil exploded in the workshop, burning all of his notes in the process.

It was with some well-founded trepidation that his family watched the latest product of Fëanor’s mind.

The public baths were the pride of Tirion. Built on natural hot springs, they had been enjoyed by several generations of Noldor, although the Teleri preferred to bathe in the rivers and the Vanyar never seemed to get dirty enough to use them. Fëanor had limited himself this time, it seemed: he was not seeking to modify the plumbing of the baths, just to add something to the water. What he intended to add was vast amounts of soap, claiming that it would be cheaper and more effective than everyone bringing their own. With the approval of the baths’ co-ordinators, Fëanor and his sons spun the faucets and slowly began to add soap into the water mix. Nerdanel braced herself.

Inside the baths, the Elves watched as the water became foamier and foamier. Those who had witnessed Fëanor’s previous demonstrations began to edge towards the exit, but they soon relaxed as the foam did not grow to monstrous proportions. The younger Elves began to play, laughing as they threw handfuls of bubbles at each other. The sons of Fëanor went to enjoy the baths; Fëanor stayed outside to monitor the conditions, and Nerdanel stayed outside to keep an eye on him.

Everything seemed well until requests started coming out the baths for more soap to be added, as the foam was quickly vanishing. Fëanor obligingly emptied two entire buckets of soap flakes to the water. For a few minutes nothing happened; then the Elves inside the baths watched the water as it bubbled… and bubbled… and bubbled.

Foam began to grow, quickly reaching the ceiling. Figures became indistinct in the mass of bubbles, and the cries of delight from the children were quickly overtaken by worried murmurs as the adult Elves wondered which way the exit was. Foam began to pour out of the windows onto the street, and a mass evacuation was organised. Maedhros bravely went inside again and again, guiding frightened groups of Elves outside, and emerged at last carrying Fingon over one shoulder. More than two hundred soapy, naked Elves stood shivering outside the baths, watching as foam continuously dripped from the windows and oozed out the doors.

‘And how long,’ demanded one of the baths’ curators, ‘do you think it will take for this to clear up?’

‘Well,’ said Fëanor, looking uncomfortable, ‘it’s somewhat self-sustaining now, but the soap will eventually cycle out of the water… perhaps a week?’

The one advantage of the foam, everyone agreed later, was that it preserved a modicum of public decency, as most of their clothes were currently inside the baths.

***

And at Formenos…

‘I don’t see why everyone’s so upset. They asked for more soap. At least the baths are going to get a good clean – did you see the mould growing in the corners?’

‘Fëanor,’ Finwë sighed, ‘just… stick to making jewellery, will you? It’ll be safer for all of us.’

***

Notes: mmm, delicious, delicious irony... Happy my birthday, everyone!