Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: O, Cruel Fate (#3420)
Author: greywing
Chapters: 7

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: A reclusive, timorous botanist is unceremoniously whisked into Middle Earth... in the form of the studliest Elf to ever walk the face of Arda. Featuring irritated Valar, fainting ellith, an unscrupulous healer, and a completely clueless Cirdan. NB: While there is mass chaos resulting from gender and body-swapping, please be assured that there is absolutely no slash involved and will remain a healthy PG throughout.
Published: 28 Apr 2007
Updated: 21 May 2007
Warnings: Silliness, Mildly Evil Healers, Shirtless Elves
Type: Humour
Characters: Glorfindel; Cirdan; Elrond; OCs


Chapter 1 - A Series of Most Unfortunate Accidents

Ellie was the sort of person who never, ever got into trouble. In fact, trouble would have probably turned tail and fled screaming in the other direction in the unlikely event that it caught sight of the tip of her last toenail. Bespectacled, gangly, and just about as sociable or attractive as a 12th century hermit, she lived her days in blissful mediocrity, her most remarkable traits being her perfectly rational fear of cockroaches, a rather odd weakness for pretty, feminine articles of clothing, and the eccentric habit of reading entirely too much for her own good.


So it came to pass that one day, Ellie was contentedly admiring the microscopic detail of the hairs on the underside of a particular kind of fuzzy leaf (the scientific name of which was only known to three living human beings), when the PCR machine on the bench behind her decided that then would be a most appropriate time to explode.


[b]Somewhere, Somewhen, Really Far Away, Possibly in Another Universe Altogether…[/b


Vaire the Weaver gave another almighty sigh. Her breath misted on the upper-right corner of her tapestry, wetting and sagging the threads, thus inadvertently causing three random elves to suddenly and inexplicably fall into the Celebrant.


Vaire was Not Happy. One would think she was busy enough, weaving the fates of every living sentient being in existence. Her husband seemed to think otherwise. The Doomsman had been greatly impressed by a particular elf’s noble, valiant deeds, and had decided to release his fea from his halls and send him back across the Sea to do even more noble, valiant deeds (which would of course have to be woven into her tapestries). Vaire snorted in a most un-Valar like way. Her husband was really too soft-hearted for his own good. First that daughter of Melian’s, now this… what was his name again? Ah yes.


Grumbling under her breath, the Weaver put away the current tapestry, shook out another and began to pluck carefully at a few threads. Re-embodiments were so tedious. She had thought she was finished with this particular one since…oh, millennia ago.


A sudden, ear-splitting shriek made her jump. Maeglin again, thought Vaire irritably. That wretched creature was always getting frightened out of his wits by his father. Mandos should really know better than to house that little dysfunctional family together. She turned her attention back to the tapestry and started in horror when she realized that her nail had snagged the cloth- causing a great deal of irreversible, cosmic damage. Eyes glued to the horrific scene playing out before her, Vaire decided to abandon over a hundred millennia of cultivated divine dignity.


Her screeches of rage reverberated throughout every corner of Valinor. Eöl squealed like a girl and hid himself, Feanor cringed in his solitary cell and Manwe developed a pounding migraine. Even Morgoth, safely tucked away in the Void, shuddered involuntarily.



Somewhere across the Sea, Ellie awoke to the sound of waves crashing on a beach and the uncomfortable sensation of sand wedging in every conceivable orifice, especially where the sun doth not shine. She groaned as she hauled her face out of the sand and sat up, clawing her masses of golden hair out of her eyes… wait a second. Golden hair? Masses of golden hair? The last she remembered, it was black, short, and vaguely mop-like. She twirled a lock of it in front of her in disbelief. Even coated in sand it had more shine than polished chrome. And what was she doing on a beach? And her body did not feel quite right, somehow. It felt…stronger.


Looking down at herself, Ellie was struck by her absence of clothing. Actually, she was struck by the absence of certain mounds of flesh that were meant to be at least partially obstructing the view down south. Say, were those abs? And good God, what was that… that thing between her legs? At the last discovery, poor Ellie completely lost it. She then did what any self-respecting, hysterical female would do under such circumstances – she screamed. Loudly. And then she fainted.


A/N: I'm a little unsure if this sort of story is allowed here, so please inform me if it isn't, and I will take it down.


Chapter 2 - Various Discoveries

.
Círdan the Shipwright strolled leisurely and aimlessly down the southern beach of Mithlond, enjoying the crisp, salt breeze of the early morning. He had been up and about four hours before dawn, escaping the troublesomely enigmatic dreams that plagued his sleep. The Valar were somewhat overfond of sending him prophetic visions to assist with their various little schemes on Middle-earth, but Círdan, being a practical, literal sort of person (like most shipwrights. Really, try building a ship out of your dreams and see if it even floats), seldom managed to interpret them. So more often than not the visions had to be relentlessly pounded into his mind over the course of a few weeks, with subtle emphases on particular parts whenever possible (without making everything blatantly obvious). It made for a rather disconcerting dreamworld that was only marginally less stressful than real life, and Círdan did not like it at all.


Lórien had been particularly forceful in the recent nights, to the point of virtually grabbing Círdan by the collar and yelling words of prophecy in his ear. It hadn’t worked. Even now he had not the faintest inkling of what the Lord of Dreams had been so excited about.


“Mark ye he who rises from the ashes,” the Vala had said (or rather, shouted). “He is the Servant of the Star, a Light against Shadow, the lone blossom in a field of green.”


An anguished roar rent the air, sending the gulls wheeling overhead scattering in all directions, and rousing the Shipwright from his quiet musings. Had someone stubbed his toe on a plank again? He hastened in the direction of the sound.


The Shipwright found a figure lying unconscious on his back on the white sands. An elf, naked as the day he was born, with long golden hair brighter than Gil-galad’s armor, and eyes as blue as the sky. That hair, thought Círdan. There is only one person in existence with hair that ridiculous shade of gold. He searched his memory for a name, and came up with nothing. He tried again, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. He probed the dark recesses of his brain long and hard, and finally found what he was looking for, in the dusty section mentally marked “Blond People I Met in the First Age”, and triumphantly dragged the morsel of information to his lips.


“Glorfindel!” he pronounced happily. Then he frowned. He was quite sure that this Glorfindel fellow was supposed to be dead; all the unwed elleths had wept for a month when the news arrived. And while the still figure before him certainly looked dead, he severely doubted that a body required several millennia to decompose. Círdan bent and placed two fingers on the side of Glorfindel’s neck. Blessed be the Valar! This fellow had a pulse! Without further ado the Shipwright scooped the elf up in his arms (thousands of years of ship-building tends to develop arms of iron) and trotted back to the Havens.


* * *


Back in Valinor, Mandos wrung his hands in despair as he paced the length of his halls. He had spent the entire day soothing a very upset Vaire, and punished both Eöl and Maeglin by locking them up with Feanor for the next five hundred years. The situation was Very Dire indeed- it was the first time such a thing had ever happened, and Manwe was Not Pleased. He had been told to settle the problem as quickly as possible, Or Else. The question was… how? There were, after all, limits to even a Vala’s powers.


* * *


Ellie awoke again for the second time in a day, this time to the sensation of something cool and damp being pressed to her forehead. Blinking, she found herself staring into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes, which widened slightly when they saw that she was awake. The owner of said blue eyes was the most splendid male specimen Ellie had ever clapped eyes on, with flawless complexion, a finely chiseled face, and dark brown curls that gently cascaded over his shoulders. His only faults seemed to be his oddly-shaped ears and a peculiar penchant for wearing shiny diamante clips in his hair. He smiled, and at that instant Ellie’s brain melted into a puddle of greasy bliss. Hello, Handsome, thought Ellie, grinning idiotically.


Handsome grinned back at her, and chattered something unintelligible in his melodious tenor. “Sorry, I don’t understand,” said Ellie, sitting up, and paused in shock. Her voice sounded strange to her ears; it was deep, silky and unmistakably male.


Slowly but surely, the jellied bits that constituted Ellie’s hapless mind picked themselves up from the aforementioned puddle and began to function. Then she remembered. She grabbed a handful of the sickeningly yellow hair and glared accusingly at it. She felt about her chest (now covered in a nightshirt) and grimly noted that it was disappointingly flat and muscular. She discreetly felt further down under the sheets and reaffirmed the presence of something that really shouldn’t have been there.


So, it hadn’t been a dream. Ellie promptly concluded that she had been kidnapped by maniacs, given a sex-change operation, deposited on some foreign beach, and then rescued by a friendly local.



Dazedly, she gazed about her and noticed for the first time that the décor didn’t vaguely resemble anything modern. Or any style from the past few centuries throughout the known world, for that matter. She turned to the bemused Handsome, and her botanist’s eye observed something she hadn’t been aware of before.


“You know,” she began calmly. “You’re actually vaguely incandescent.” Handsome cocked his head, uncomprehending, and said something in his musical language. Ellie ignored it and continued, her voice slightly shaky. “Actually, I don’t think you’re human at all.”



Then she turned her eyes to the ceiling and screamed, and screamed and screamed until something heavy descended upon her head with a tremendous whump, and the world went black. Again.





TBC: In the next chapter, the handsome healer discusses his patient with his lord, and Ellie discovers how deeply in trouble she really is.


Chapter 3 - Elrond, Elrond, Elrond, and a Rude Shock

Neldor the healer sighed in relief as his latest patient slumped back onto the bed, knocked completely senseless by the hefty copy of “The Beauty of Poisons (F.A 300, Eöl of Nan Elmoth)” he had conveniently swiped from a nearby table ( after briefly wondering what a tome with such a title was doing in the infirmary). The elf had seemed nice enough-he’d even smiled (rare to see in this profession)-even if he was a little odd. Until he went completely mad and started screaming at the top of his lungs. Really, that was a little premature. Neldor hadn’t even begun any of his notoriously bloody surgical procedures yet.


Just then, the door swung open to reveal a very displeased-looking Círdan, apparently drawn by the commotion. He raised a very lordly silver eyebrow at the sight of the rapidly developing bruise on the unconscious elf’s temple, and looked sidelong at the healer. Neldor swallowed nervously and attempted, vainly, to hide the incriminating evidence behind his back.


“My lord,” Neldor began. “I can explain.”


“Please do,” replied Círdan mildly. “Please explain why you just thwacked the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, hero of Gondolin, twice-born Balrog Slayer and beloved emissary of the Valar, on the head.”


Neldor’s eyes grew as large and round as saucers. “You mean Glorfindel?”


“Aye, Neldor.”


“That half-Vanyar fellow?”


“Aye.”


“The very one that fought the Balrog and died?”


“Aye.”


“The one that was rumored to have a weakness for purple silk tights?”


“Aye-nay!” said Círdan, annoyed. Glorfindel did not wear purple silk tights-that was Duilin, who loved the color so much he dyed his arrow fletchings to match (1). “Now will you tell me why you hit Glorfindel on the head or not?”


Neldor sniffed. It was not his business, he supposed, to wonder why his lord had lugged in an unconscious long-dead hero like the day’s catch of herring, and why said long-dead hero, upon attaining consciousness, didn’t act like a long-dead hero at all. So Neldor straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and tried to look as important and professional as possible.


“I had no choice, my lord,” he began. “Lord Glorfindel was exhibiting symptoms of extreme mental instability – spouting nonsense, calm one moment, hysterical the next… if you ask me, these are the classic signs, almost textbook, really, of -”


Círdan held up a hand, interrupting the healer mid-ramble. “I think you should send for Elrond,” he said.


“What?” spluttered Neldor. “But why? I am sure that the Lord Herald has more important business…”


“This is more than important business,” corrected Círdan. “It is critical business. I have ships to build, new blueprints to review, papers to sign and teary farewells to organize, and I can not do any of these things efficiently unless the Valar leave me alone to have a good night’s rest. And for the Valar to leave me alone I need Glorfindel up, coherent, and completely sane. Do you understand, healer?”


“Yes, Lord Círdan,” replied Neldor sulkily.


“Good. Then see that it is done.” The Shipwright turned on his heel and exited, slamming the door shut behind him.


Neldor glared at the uncooperatively unconscious form in front of him. Elrond, he thought bitterly. It was always Elrond. Break a leg? Send for Elrond. The missus’ feminine discomforts acting up again? No fear, Elrond Halfelven is here! Dying of grief? Fading? Just call for Elrond, and everything will be right as rain, even if all he does is send you over the Sea. It was true that ever since his appointment as Herald, and newly discovered hobby of aggravating Annatar (2), the Peredhel seldom made house calls. But that didn’t stop big shots like Círdan from summoning the healer whenever the fancy took them. That’s what Elrond was. The Healer, with a capital T and H. No one ever remembered that other healers actually existed. No one cared that Neldor son of Almir, Master Healer of the Havens, author of “144 Uses of Athelas (3)”, was the leading expert on the use of common weeds in healing, and had probably saved more people in the past millennium than Elrond had ever seen in his entire life.


No, it was always the young, brilliant ones that got all the attention. And now, Elrond was to treat this resurrected celebrity-- his patient, thought Neldor passionately- and would get all the credit, again. Unless…


Slowly, Neldor’s lips curved up in a devious smile. Unless he struck first.


No, he would not disobey Círdan (who was the source of a sizable income). He would send for the Peredhel. But he would ensure that Elrond took the longest possible time to reach the Havens (no mean feat considering that it wasn’t all that far away from Lindon). And by the time he arrived, he, Neldor son of Almir, Master Healer of the Havens, author of “144 Uses of Athelas”, and not Elrond Peredhel, would have restored the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower to all his shining golden-flowery glory.

---



Ellie was persuaded to awaken by the application of several litres of cold water. She sat up, gasping and cursing and very cross indeed. Then she looked about and was greeted by the disturbing sight of Handsome smiling sweetly at her, a large, suspiciously damp and ornately carved basin cradled in his arms. There was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that told her that Handsome, charming and innocent looks notwithstanding, probably had something to do with her last blackout as well, being a glowing alien and all. Never, ever judge a book by its cover.


“What’s your problem, E.T?” she snapped, wringing out a waterlogged handful of hair. Handsome’s brilliant blue eyes widened ingenuously as his perfectly formed lips pursed into a most lovely pout. Ellie’s irritation evaporated instantly, leaving her brain free to undergo meltdown once more. Ah, hell. This book had a really pretty cover, even if it came from outer space.


While Ellie was at a loss for words, Handsome set down the basin and turned earnestly to her. He began to speak very slowly, looking deeply into her eyes. Ellie shook her head dazedly, enchanted. “No dear,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.” Handsome frowned and tried again, speaking in a tongue that seemed similar to the first, but less lilting and richer in sound. She shook her head again. “No, I’m sorry. Don’t you guys have like universal translators or something? I mean, you traveled across space to abduct me? Where’s all your technology?” She waved a hand at her surroundings. “I mean, everything looks almost Middle-Ages, only much prettier. I was expecting computers and sleek black consoles and stuff. I guess you guys are rather odd, huh.”


Handsome then replied in the first language he had used, and Ellie’s faltering brain, inundated by strange words, unexpectedly clung onto one particular word like a drowning rat to a piece of driftwood--Mithlond. Why that was familiar Ellie had no idea. Perhaps it was the name of some faraway galaxy she was in?


“Is this place,” she started slowly, spreading her arms and gesticulating to indicate the general area around her. “This place…is Mithlond?” Handsome let out a small excited cry and clapped his hands, nodding enthusiastically and jabbering away all the while. Ellie couldn’t help smiling; Handsome’s antics were so…human. “Alright,” she enthused. “Perhaps we can get somewhere after all.” She pointed to herself. “Ellie.” She then pointed to Handsome, raising a questioning eyebrow. “What about you?”


Handsome looked handsomely perturbed. “El-ly?” he repeated. Ellie nodded. “Yes, yes, me Ellie,” she said, patting herself on the chest. “You?” Handsome placed a hand on her shoulder and said her name, then shook his head vehemently. It was almost as if he were saying she wasn’t Ellie. He placed his other hand on his chest. “Neldor,” he stated clearly. Then he patted Ellie’s shoulder. “Glorfindel.”


Ellie was about to protest when a thought struck her. Glorfindel-that was what she had been called. Handsome (or rather, Neldor) appeared to know her. What if she hadn’t had a sex change and hair transplant, and was actually in someone else’s body? Someone whom Neldor recognized? And why was the name so darned familiar?


“Glorfindel,” said Neldor again, softly, almost pleadingly.



Glorfindel, Glorfindel, Glorfindel…… The gears in Ellie’s already overwhelmed brain creaked and groaned into action, trying to find a connection somewhere. A lesser mind might have given out and imploded from the strain, but Ellie’s was no ordinary cerebrum. It was a botanist’s brain, honed by years of memorizing obscenely long, complicated Latin names and well used to trapping and hoarding any helpless bit of information that so happened to drift by.


And so, as expected, she remembered. She remembered where she had first come across the name in a book, and she remembered what sort of person this Glorfindel was supposed to be. It all added up- the lustrous golden hair, the rock-hard abs, the inexplicable if vague feeling of having died recently…And in that context, she knew what, and where Mithlond was too. Bits and pieces of related information started popping up throughout her brain.


“This is…Arda?” asked Ellie weakly, pointing downwards at the ground. Neldor beamed.


“And I,” continued Ellie hoarsely, indicating herself. “Am Edhel?” Neldor looked slightly puzzled at this, but nodded enthusiastically. “Edhel,” he confirmed.


There was no doubt about it.


The rational, scientific part of her mind surrendered and fled screaming into some remote corner of her cranium.


“I’m in a book universe?” Ellie murmured incredulously. “I’m an elf? I’m Glorfindel?” This could not be happening; it was not possible, as far as modern science was concerned. She (or rather he whose body she was currently inhabiting and who was probably really, really upset at the moment) was a mighty hero who had perished in the deed of slaying a big ugly fiery monster and sent back to the living world by the Powers That Be to carry out some Very Important Tasks (which she wasn’t really sure of, but she supposed the Powers That Be had to have an agenda). She was, as far as she knew, stuck in Tolkien-Fantasyland, with no way of returning to her beloved plant tissue cultures and orchid garden. Heck, she probably would never be able to wear a dress again. Ellie buried her face in her hands and wept.


A light touch at her shoulder made her look up. While she had been engrossed in her thoughts, Neldor had gotten up and returned with a mug of something hot and steaming in his hands. He held it out to her, his face full of gentle concern. Ellie flung her arms around the startled healer’s waist, almost upsetting the liquid, and sobbed into his tunic.





(1)Duilin, chieftain of the House of the Swallow, a house of archers. Their symbol was a fan of purple feathers. (acc. To Wikipedia)

(2)What Sauron called himself when he presented himself to the Elves in his fair form. And neither Elrond nor Gil-galad liked him at all, to his great disappointment.

(3)Why 144? Because the Eldar like multiples of twelve. Really. And 144 is the biggest number they count to.

A/N: This story follows canon events very closely, and Ellie's (admittedly very limited) book knowledge will have little to no effect on the regular course of (major) events.


Chapter 4 - Observations and Experiments

Gasping from want of air, Neldor gingerly pried away the vice-like grip around his waist and tucked the still sobbing elf back into (the still somewhat damp) bed. Then he carefully fed Glorfindel the warm broth he’d brought, and murmured soothing words until the elf had calmed and fallen asleep. Neldor’s gentle, benevolent smile immediately relaxed into a scowl.

Neldor quietly slipped out of the room, shut the door, and made his way to the adjoining study. Settling down in front of his desk, he hauled a massive book from a shelf, picked out a quill, and began to write on an empty page.

“Case 8,005,568, Glorfindel of Gondolin,” he wrote. “Height: six foot five, weight: too heavy, age: 5,631, discounting years spent dead. Occupation: none; ex –Balrog-Slayer. Physically fit; no injuries barring a large bruise on left temple from blunt-force trauma, administered for therapeutic purposes.” Neldor chewed reflectively on the tip of his quill before continuing. “Patient appears to be in state of high mental confusion, possibly from psychological trauma of resurrection. Patient speaks in a strange, guttural language, calls himself ‘Elli’, and seemed devastated upon discovering himself to be an elf. The physician thereby concludes that said patient is deluded and thinks himself a dwarf.”

Neldor set down the pitifully mangled quill and gazed thoughtfully at his entry. The assumed-identity thing was somewhat of an unexpected setback, but it mattered little. He was confident of his abilities (or, as his rivals would say, his stunning repertoire of unorthodox methods).

By the end of the week, Glorfindel would remember every single wretched detail of his past life.

Neldor smiled.

---

After riding briskly away from Mithlond for some miles, the Havens’ official courier dismounted on top of a hill overlooking the sea. The elf spent some time searching for the perfect spot, and found it under a blossoming cherry tree. Rummaging in his pack, he shook out a pink and white checkered picnic cloth and proceeded to have a most enjoyable afternoon lunching and dozing in the sunshine while his horse rolled about in the grass.

“This is very important,” his dispatcher had said, handing him three letters and a large picnic basket. “Take all the time you want. Have a holiday on the way. Enjoy yourself.” His was the best job in Arda, decided the elf, as he downed another mouthful of wine.

--

“I have rights!” roared the dark-haired elf (or rather, spirit that looked vaguely like a dark-haired elf) chained (figuratively) to the wall in Mandos’ sparkly-new state-of-the-art laboratory (courtesy of Aulë). “I demand fair treatment!”

“Oh be quiet, Fëanor,” replied Mandos, quite unaffected, as he prepared for his experiment. “You ceased having rights ever since that mess at Aqualondë, which, if I may remind you, filled my halls to bursting and wrecked havoc with the paperwork. And if this works you shall have a new body to live in, albeit temporarily, which is a really good deal considering your history.”

“I do not want his body!” spat Fëanor, glaring daggers at Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2, who was trembling violently as he lay bound on the table.

“You do not have a choice,” pointed out the Vala.

Fëanor changed tactics. “But that poor elf on the table has done nothing to deserve this treatment, my lord,” he whined. “It is most unjust. Think of his feelings!” Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2 squeaked faintly in agreement.

“Shut up,” suggested Mandos.

Fëanor lost his temper. “Eöl and Maeglin do not have to undergo this…this torment! They were the cause of this chaos, not I!”

“They have…other uses,” replied the Vala dismissively. He raised his hands, and there was a dramatic flash of lightning and choking smoke of the kind to be found in the basement of Angband.

When the smoke cleared, the Spirit of Fire had disappeared.

“Is that you, Fëanor?” asked Mandos of the figure on the table.

“Um…n-no?” stuttered Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2. He had not stopped shaking, and a dark stain was spreading on the front of his leggings. No? Mandos frowned, wrinkling his nose at the stench of ammonia. Where was Fëanor then?

An angry hiss claimed Mandos’ attention. He looked down to see Vaire’s pet cat staring balefully up at him with Fëanor’s eyes.

“Oh, no.”


Chapter 5 - Settling In

Ellie woke up. She seemed to be doing a lot of that these days. It appeared to be early morning, with the first rays of sunlight filtering in through the eastern windows.

She looked about her and saw the washstand by one of the windows. She swung her powerful, muscular legs over the edge of the bed and strode to it. A suspiciously familiar basin was set on the washstand, a jug filled with lukewarm water by its side. Ellie filled the basin and began to splash her face, noting with morbid fascination as she did so that the ornamentation on the basin matched that of the jug, which in turn matched perfectly the carvings on the washstand and the pillars of the room. Elves liked to make things in sets, maybe? She was just searching for something to use as a face towel when the door swung open.

An elf-maid came in, bearing a tray that wafted delicious smells of fresh bread and honey. Probably just your average elleth, no doubt, but lovely enough to make Miss Universe look like a moldy pancake. Their eyes met.

Ellie beamed in what she hoped was a friendly manner, quite pleased at the sight of another female soul (and food) at long last.

She had, however, for the moment forgotten that she was Glorfindel the Golden-haired, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and worshipped by every maiden west of the Blue Mountains. She also did not know that the serving-maid, a young impressionable elleth barely into her first half-century, had, like all young impressionable females, her own ideals of romantic interests, and that she, in the studly form of the Balrog-Slayer, fulfilled every single one of them to the minutest detail.

Gloriously backlit by the rising sun, golden tresses aflame with the light of dawn, water droplets glistening on mane and face like a thousand adamants, Ellie-Glorfindel represented the epitome of male Elvish beauty. And when he (she) smiled that heart-stopping smile, the elleth was overcome.

Ellie looked on in bewilderment as the elleth shuddered and slumped unconscious onto the floor with a long, lovesick sigh.

“Oh dear,” said Ellie (in truth expressing more regret over the upset tray than the fallen maiden). She wondered if she should attempt to revive the maiden (though really, she was only good at reviving half-dead vegetation). She was about to approach her when Neldor came hurrying in through the open door, very nearly tripping over the elleth in the process.

Regaining his balance, Neldor stared at the body on the floor. He lifted his gaze and regarded Ellie-Glorfindel, still dramatically haloed by the sunrise. He dropped his eyes back to the elleth and delicately prodded her back with a velvet-shod foot. He looked up again at Ellie and proceeded to convey his disapproval, disgust, and complete annoyance in one hard glare.

“I didn’t do anything, honest!” declared Ellie. The healer sniffed, slung the elleth over his shoulder, and stalked out of the room. The door shut, and Ellie heard a key turn in the lock.

“Well!” exclaimed Ellie, miffed at being locked in like a lunatic in a cell. “How rude. Not so much as a hello. And all that lovely breakfast wasted, too.”

As she looked regretfully at the mess on the floor (which still looked remarkably appetizing given its slightly splattered state) she became acutely aware of an overpowering urge to micturate (1). A hasty rummaging about the room revealed a brass vessel discreetly hidden beneath the bed. Ellie got it out and studied it curiously. It was extraordinarily beautiful, every square inch of it covered in exquisitely detailed floral motifs, and a sweet fragrance emanated from a cleverly designed compartment on the lid. For a moment Ellie paused, wondering if this was indeed, as it appeared to be, a chamberpot. As far as she knew, vessels expressly made for the purpose of waste elimination were not also meant to function as works of art.

Her protesting bladder indicated that it might be more convenient for her to continue her musings after it had been emptied. She removed the lid of the vessel, and considered it with great interest. Unfamiliar with the workings of the complex hydraulics that constituted the new part of her anatomy, she was loath to carry out her business in the manner of the male gender, lest she miss her mark and stain the lovely carpet. Yet, she doubted that doing it the way she was used to would be practical, or even feasible. Thus her dilemma: To Squat or Not to Squat, that was the question.

--

Neldor put on his best scowl as he stomped (as much as an elf can stomp) down the corridor to the maiden’s quarters, hoping it would be sufficient to ward off any questioning glances. Curse the elf’s beauty! He was dangerous, that one, and best kept under lock and key. Neldor was glad that Círdan had decided to keep Glorfindel’s return quiet for the time being – he could well imagine his beloved infirmary swarming with excited, squealing ellith jostling for a sight of the famous hero. He would have trouble enough getting this particular one to keep her mouth shut.

He reached the rooms which the elleth shared with her family, and deposited the maiden, still blissfully comatose, with her mother. “She has been having strange hallucinations about handsome elf-lords,” he informed the older lady, who blinked at him in confusion. “Ignore her and tell her not to eat any more strange mushrooms.”

How terribly annoying, thought Neldor as he stormed bad-temperedly to the kitchens to prepare another breakfast tray for his charge. He would just have to care for Glorfindel completely himself.

---


How hard can this be, really? wondered Ellie as she gazed at the brass vessel, its finely ornamented mouth so open and inviting. She lifted her nightshirt and took careful aim. She missed by quite a wide angle, hitting instead a patch of (thankfully) dark-colored carpet. The vessel remained pristine and conspicuously empty. Alarmed, she hurriedly swung left, but still only succeeded in ruining yet another spot of carpet. Quite ready to scream, Ellie shifted to the right again. Still, defying her will (and to her mind, several laws of physics), it stubbornly refused to go where she directed it. Hold and desist, Ellie told herself, in a valiant endeavor not to create a swampland out of the carpet fibers. Relieving oneself shouldn’t be so difficult! She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the imminent bursting of the floodgates, and attempted to recall as much as she possibly could about male toilet habits. Really, the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. A mind of a particularly stubborn mule, to be exact. Now, with a mule one could, through the use of physical force, take it in hand… Hands! That was it! Perhaps a little manual control would do the trick. It worked, and Ellie let out a whoop of jubilation as the fruit of her labors manifested in a beautiful trajectory and landed neatly into the chamberpot.

--

Neldor returned to the room, precariously balancing a well-laden breakfast tray in one hand and clasping an assortment of clothing and articles of toilet in the other. Glorfindel seemed strangely smug, but Neldor dismissed it, putting it down to the knockout success of the earlier peacock display. He set the tray down and waved a hand towards it, indicating that the elf-lord should eat. Glorfindel flashed him a dazzling smile and complied.

Neldor watched in mild horror as Glorfindel devoured the contents of the tray with the speed and table manners of a ravenous warg. Didn’t they feed him at all back in Valinor? He averted his eyes to the much more agreeable view out the window and waited with a long-suffering air for his charge to finish his meal.

Eventually the elf polished up the last few scraps from the tray and sat back, contentedly sated. Neldor took the tray from him and set it aside. Then he began showing Glorfindel the various objects he had brought, miming as he went along.

Glorfindel smiled and even looked a little excited at the finely brocaded tunic, but seemed wholly baffled by Neldor’s attempts to explain the uses of a collection of twelve vials and jars containing various potions and creams (the very bare minimum every elf ought to have).

After some time, Neldor gave up and put the toiletries away. He pinched one edge of Glorfindel’s nightshirt between finger and thumb, gave it a little tug, and thrust the garments he had brought into his arms. Then he waved in the direction of the door and made a backwards motion, indicating that he would be back for the elf-lord later. Glorfindel nodded slowly in comprehension (ah, the poor fellow was not too far gone then), and Neldor turned to leave.

Today would be another day of observation. Tomorrow, thought Neldor happily, rubbing his palms together in anticipation. Tomorrow would see the beginning of treatment.



(1) micturate: to urinate


Chapter 6 - Wait and See

“Yes, Fëanor,” sighed Mandos. “This is absolutely necessary. Or do you wish to remain a cat for the rest of eternity?”


The feline he was strapping down gave him an insulted glare and tried yet again to bite him. The cat had never liked Mandos; with the arrival of the Spirit of Fire it was the most vicious thing on four legs since Carcharoth.


Mandos secured the last strap and rubbed his temple gingerly. It had been a trying day, to say the least. First he had spent the better part of the morning hiding the cat from his wife (“Have you seen Miuco (1), Námo?” “No dear, he’s probably off catching birds again.”). Then Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2 had somehow escaped from the laboratory and gone around shrieking about “cruel, cruel experiments” and “that insane Vala”. Luckily, no-one had paid much attention, and Mandos was able to mumble something about his “traumatic death” and “not enough time spent in the Halls, sorry, will take him back now.”


Back on the laboratory table, the wretched creature was watching the proceedings with a look of sheer terror on his face. Now, seeing that Mandos was about to begin the next stage of the procedure, he whimpered and tried to shrink away.


Mandos ignored him. He inspected the room to ensure it was free of any other sentient life-form, chased out a nosy moth, wiped out a spot of mold just to be on the safe side, and finally returned to his place in front of the cat and elf. Never able to resist a little drama (even when faced with such a small audience), he theatrically cracked his knuckles and stretched. Then he focused.

**




Ellie sank back on the soft bed with a happy sigh. The past few hours had been heavenly. Neldor (who she assumed was now her official babysitter. But not that she minded) had taken her to a beautiful little garden, where she’d spent a most exciting afternoon attempting to classify the indigenous flora of Middle Earth (which were, for the most part, quite similar to those back home). Then Neldor, ever attentive, had brought her some more of that wonderful Elvish food. It almost made up for being male, really.


With that last thought, Ellie turned pensive. Would she be stuck in this body for the rest of eternity (here it must be noted that most humans have no idea what eternity really means. We often say "this paint takes forever to dry!", not realizing that if you said that to an elf he'd probably reply, in all seriousness, "no, it takes about a century and a half")?


And where was the real Glorfindel?


Back in her old body, perhaps? Ellie giggled to herself. He wouldn’t like that very much now, would he? Then again, there probably wasn’t much of her body left to be in. She knew she’d died (though there hadn’t been any tunnels with light at the ends of them, just a loud bang and searing heat, and then…nothing). Somehow, Ellie doubted that the real Glorfindel would appreciate waking up charred for the second time in a row. Or would he be stranded in Valinor? Were the Valar angry at her for messing up their plans? Ellie winced at the thought and decided that she would put off sailing west (if she remained as Glorfindel) for a long, long while.


We’ll see how it goes, Ellie told herself, fluffing out her pillow and laying herself down. No point worrying about that now, right?

**



It is the general opinion that people suffering from some form of amnesia or other should be treated gently and patiently, to calm them and ease the road to recovery, all the more so if the amnesia was caused by a traumatic event. Even medical practitioners, more or less, also subscribe to this view, though they do have an inclination to carry out all sorts of distressing tests and pump the patients full of chemicals (but they can hardly be blamed. We all get carried away sometimes when we’re having fun).


Neldor however, regarded this school of thought as being highly misguided. He preferred a more... physical approach. One, in fact, that might possibly involve his favorite cudgel (weapon of choice for annoyed healers in the field dealing with screaming patients and the odd orc or two) or some similar medical instrument. Or perhaps even one of those extremely numerous cod left all over the place by careless fishermen. Anything, in short, that was blunt and heavy and caused major reorganization of brain tissue when applied (We are, indeed, beginning to see a pattern here.)


You see, Neldor had recently hypothesized that memory loss was caused by bits of brain not being where they should, and that a good hard whack would somehow scuttle them back to their proper places and teach them to behave (much like how you and I fix malfunctioning electronic devices). Unfortunately Neldor had never been able to test this, as elves seldom got memory loss, and those that did usually had concerned family members who sent them to Elrond anyway. ( In fact one of the reasons why Neldor was so successful as a healer was that all his patients were simply too afraid of his unconventional methods to want to remain in his care for long, and thus willed themselves back to good health.)


All that remained was to apply this controversial new technique to the case of the golden-haired Balrog-Slayer.

**


This time, there was no smoke, just a surge of static electricity and a rather disappointing floop. Mandos would have liked it to have been a little more spectacular (after all, he was the Doomsman of the Valar, and had to live up to his reputation), but, considering the earlier disaster, had decided he couldn’t afford the slightest lapse in concentration.


He eyed his two test subjects critically. Miuco the cat lay limply in his bonds, mewing pathetically – a good sign, as Fëanor would sooner join Morgoth in the Void than sound pathetic. Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2, however, was out cold. The trauma of another fëa entering the body? Mandos did not know. It disturbed him how it was becoming very quickly apparent how he did not know a great many things.


He would have to wait and see, then.

**


Ellie rose long before dawn, troubled by strange dreams of stout wooden sticks. Unable to return to sleep, she strode to one of the large windows and sat on the low, wide ]windowsill. For a while she gazed out at the star-strewn night, and felt a strange urge to burst into song. I’m becoming Elvish, she mused, then shook her head. [i>No, that’s not right- I am an elf, if only in body.[/i] She tucked one leg beneath her and began to idly swing the other. I wonder what they think has happened to Glorfindel? And how long more before they find out he’s actually not him?


If something didn’t happen for her to leave Glorfindel’s body soon, would she have to take over Glorfindel’s duties? She remembered now, quite clearly, that it involved a horse with jingly reins, several evil black things and a half-dead Halfling carrying the jewelry equivalent of a WMD. Ellie couldn’t see herself pulling that off by any stretch of the imagination. And wasn’t there something about leading an army off to some war in the north somewhere? The prospect frightened her -- the closest thing to a weapon she had ever handled was probably a scalpel, and the only things she had ever purposefully killed had been several large cockroaches. But if she didn’t … it did not bear thinking.


Ellie felt completely helpless. There was absolutely nothing she could do about her current situation. She couldn’t speak Elvish, for one thing (surely that would have been a hint to Neldor that Glorfindel wasn’t quite right?), and thus couldn’t tell anyone of her predicament, and could find out nothing of her current situation. There were so many questions she had to ask, and no way of asking them.


She sighed, laying her head back against the cool stone. Part of her prayed that the real Glorfindel would return soon to make things right again. But if he returns, she reflected, where will you go?

**

Neldor entered the room with a breakfast tray in his arms, and felt mildly surprised when a cursory glance failed to locate his charge. Looking around more carefully, he found the Balrog-Slayer, half-hidden by a wall, sitting on the windowsill with his face turned towards the dawn. He appeared too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that Neldor had entered the room.


What is it with him and sunrises, wondered Neldor, dropping his professional expression of cheerful optimism in favor of an irritated scowl. Ah, I am a fool to leave him in a room where he can be seen in plain view; the ellith will spot him! And we know what trouble that will be … He made a mental note to have the elf-lord moved as soon as possible.


With that thought, he turned to call to Glorfindel. To his surprise, before he could do so, the elf turned and flashed him such a radiant, sincere smile, that for the briefest of moments the healer felt the faintest stirrings of remorse for what he was about to do to the unsuspecting elf-lord. Burying the twinges of guilt below the growing feeling of anticipation, Neldor swiftly assumed an expression of kindly concern (meticulously copied from Elrond centuries before) and, returning the smile, beckoned Glorfindel to his breakfast, ensuring his back remained out of sight all the while.


Neldor waited patiently till Glorfindel’s attention was completely occupied by his food. Then, slowly, his fingers began to reach into the back of his tunic.

**


Ellie’s worries were smothered completely by the glorious aroma that pervaded her nostrils as she approached the food tray. Not as ravenous now, she took the time to savor every bit of her breakfast, which consisted of delightfully light, flaky pastries and a honey-sweet fruit drink of some kind.

She was well onto her fourth pastry when a soft rustle of fabric caught her attention. It wasn’t the sound clothes produced when people were walking around- it was an ominous rustle, and Ellie, somehow, knew something was up. She stopped her chewing and listened, and time seemed to slow. A nearly imperceptible change in the air currents, an almost inaudible whoosh of something slicing through the air…

Without thought, quick as lightning, she spun round, her arm lashing out to intercept something hard and wooden mid-blow. Blinking in surprise, she met the sight of Neldor clutching one end of a short club, staring at her in complete astonishment. Her fist was closed firmly on the other end, which had already begun to crack a little under her grip. Was the elf mad? He had tried to kill her! And how on earth had she moved so fast?

They stayed awkwardly frozen in place, Ellie still reeling from the shock of having miraculously prevented a fatal (or so she thought) blow to her head, and Neldor petrified with an expression that looked very much like panic. As Ellie tried how best to react, the door opened.

Momentarily distracted, Ellie loosened her grip. Neldor instantly took advantage of the situation to yank it away, but it was too late. A deep-throated exclamation issued from behind the door, and a silver-haired, bearded man strode imperiously into the room, firing angry questions at the healer.

No, not a man, decided Ellie, noting the fine, gracile features. An elf…with a beard? Silver hair, beard, Mithlond…Círdan? Behind her, Neldor gave a strangled squeak, and began to speak very rapidly, his tone placating. He came around to the front of her with his club, smiled shakily, and waved it, then, before she had time to react, swiftly and smartly rapped her on the knee.

“Ow!” cried Ellie as her lower leg jerked upwards. Neldor grinned a little more confidently, and continued speaking, making broad circular movements with his arms. The elf she thought might be Círdan seemed unimpressed.

So Neldor was telling Círdan that he had been testing her reflexes using a club that could’ve brained a rhinoceros?

“Hey, look, you can’t get away with trying to kill me!” thundered Ellie, springing to her feet and pointing an accusing finger at the healer. Now quite recovered from her shock, she had to battle an almost irresistible urge to throttle the damned elf. Neldor, cowed, wisely took a step back.

The bearded elf stepped between them, speaking gently to Ellie. “He did, I swear!” insisted Ellie, thinking he was defending the healer. “Tried to hit me on the back of the head, he did!” Cirdan looked at her curiously for a moment, then turned and barked a few sharp orders to Neldor before sweeping majestically out of the room. The healer followed bravely, an unreadable expression on his face.

Great, thought Ellie, watching the two elves leave. The nicest person I’ve ever met just attempted to kill me. She sank back into her chair and fumed.


(1) Miuco: cat (Q.) Yes, I know, it’s a highly unimaginative name. But so is Kitty.


Chapter 7 - Complications

Neldor’s heart filled with trepidation as Círdan turned to face him. The Shipwright might be a little thick at times, but millennia upon millennia of experience meant he had gotten regrettably adept at reading others. Neldor suspected his spur-of-the-moment excuse, while brilliant considering the circumstances, lacked a certain credibility.

“Do you insult my intelligence, healer?” demanded Círdan. “Do you think to fool me?”

Neldor knew better than to lie to the Shipwright. Yet he hesitated.

Unfortunately Círdan proved uncharacteristically sharp this day. “Not another of your new remedies?” he exclaimed. “We have spoken of this before.”

Neldor remained silent, but could feel his cheeks burning. The Shipwright could make any elf, even one of several thousand summers like Neldor himself, feel like a mere child.

“I have always indulged your … creative streak, healer. When Thingol threw you out and Nargothrond shut its doors on you, I took you in. When you gave Galdor a nervous breakdown I forgave you. When you nearly drugged that sick Númenórean captain to death I interceded on your behalf. And you repay me by inflicting violence upon my guest, and the emissary of the Valar.”

Neldor hung his head. “I assure you, lord,” he replied, trying to regain his composure. “That I had the best of intentions.”

“I doubt that,” said Círdan in his usual blunt manner. “Glorfindel is of tremendous importance to us, and we can risk no harm to him.” He paused, appearing to be slightly disturbed. “His condition is far worse than I thought. He speaks in an unknown tongue, and there is a strangeness about him that I cannot place.”

“I imagine his return from the Halls of Mandos must have jarred his mind,” said Neldor eagerly, hoping to regain favor. “I think …”

“Enough, Neldor,” interrupted Círdan. “Perhaps it would be best if you allow Elrond to assume full responsibility for this case. Which reminds me, why has there been no word of his coming? The High King’s palace is hardly two days’ ride away.”

Neldor coughed and mumbled something about “unexpected delays”.

Círdan raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said, but appeared to accept this. “You may continue caring for Glorfindel, if he will let you near him, but no more treatments.” He then wandered off, to the healer’s immense relief.

He does not understand, thought the healer resentfully as he scurried back to his quarters. These fancy lords knew nothing of innovation. But he would show them.

* * * *

Think of “plant people”, and your mind invariably conjures up images of placid, 19th century gentlemen pottering about in glasshouses. Or that nice lady at the flower-shop. Perhaps even the shy, pretty girl at the plant nursery. The point is that people who are very fond of plants are typically considered to be quite like them in temperament.

Ellie, of course, was a “plant person”, and some would say she probably had the personality of a vegetable, but let us be kind, and merely say that she had the emotional stability of an inanimate object(except of course, when it came to cockroaches -- hell hath no fury like a woman facing vermin) .

So it was that Ellie felt no small surprise that the intensity of the rage welling up within her. It surged through her veins, this feeling of righteous indignation. She (or rather, Glorfindel) , a respectable elf and hero of the First Age, had been assailed with a club. A club, the most primitive of weapons. He’d not even had the courtesy or good sense to use a proper blade. Wait, what? Now where had that come from, wondered Ellie, frankly appalled at her own thoughts.

Ellie was still wondering when and why exactly her thoughts had seemingly gone out of control, when Neldor returned, alone, looking twice as friendly as usual. He flashed his usual bright smile, but it failed to have its customary effect. He bowed slightly to Ellie, and said something that sounded only very vaguely apologetic. That was it? Call that an apology? Ellie felt herself seething dangerously, like a vat of hot liquid about to come very violently to the boil.

“I can’t believe Círdan let you off the hook,” she said quietly, only the slightest quaver in her voice betraying that she would very much like to smash Neldor’s face into an unrecognizable pulp, preferably with his own cudgel. “Do you honestly think you can get away with trying to kill me?”

Neldor tilted his head, looking puzzled. There it was again-- that innocent, wide-eyed expression that seemed to suggest that no, he hadn’t been trying to clobber Ellie into oblivion, he was just swinging it for a bit of fun there, it was all an accident … Ellie, still seeing a great deal of red, didn’t buy it for a moment. She briefly wondered if Círdan would mind terribly if she threw his healer off a cliff. She hadn’t felt so angry in centuries. Wait, she thought, catching herself yet again. Centuries?

Distracted, she waved her hand dismissively. “Go away.” Neldor didn’t seem to understand, and even took a step forward, speaking softly.

“Go away!” she repeated, with more vehemence than she meant. Neldor, aggrieved, looked as if he would crumple into tears on the spot. Had she been too harsh? After all, she couldn’t be certain of what was going on, due to her inability to communicate. Unlikely, but what if, what if it had all been a misunderstanding? In retrospect, would anyone dare to attempt to murder Glorfindel in the house of the Shipwright? And Neldor, after all, had been amazingly kind to her, if slightly impatient at times. Surely as a healer he wouldn’t try to off his own patient? And to top it all off, he looked completely guileless. She couldn’t for the life of her decide whether the healer was genuinely repentant, or simply amazingly manipulative.

Her expression must have remained harsh, for Neldor, looking absolutely devastated, bowed again, stiffly, and left. Ellie, feeling not a little guilty, called after him. “Neldor!”

But he was gone. And in his haste, he had left the door open.


Neldor laughed quietly to himself as he disappeared down the corridor, his scheming mind already pleasantly occupied with various machinations involving a certain golden-haired elf.

* * * *

Mandos held his breath as Random Newly-Re-embodied Elf #2’s eyes fluttered slowly open.

“Well?” he said, as the elf slowly sat up, groaning and clutching his head. “How do you feel?”

“Head hurts,” whispered the elf, raising his head slowly and carefully. Mandos noted the new, unholy glint in his eyes. Did it mean success?

Suddenly, the elf gave a sharp cry and looked around him.

“Where- “ he began, then clutched his head again. “No, no! Stop talking! Stop! Stop! I beg you, stop!”

Mandos watched, intrigued, as the elf ran wildly around the laboratory, pausing every now and then to hit his head upon the walls. It boded well, and it was time to find out for sure. Standing up to his full height, he boomed, “Be still and hearken to me! Tell me who is speaking to you!” The elf appeared not to hear and continued his mad dash around the room.

Mandos clapped a huge hand on the elf’s shoulder, pulling the elf to face him. “Tell me,” he commanded. “Who speaks in your mind?”

He smiled in satisfaction as the wretched creature whimpered, “Fëanor.”
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