And She, the mighty mighty She, what had She done? Bitten her lips until they bled and retreated to her tower room (of course it had to be a tower) in dizzying frenzy of thought, her finger tingling with memories from the single brief touch of the manly biceps of the Lord of Dun Sóbrin come back from the past. Reaching finally her private quarters, she opportunely swooned (it was a long, steep climb) upon the purple velvet covers of her massive four-poster bed, not rising again until the moonlight shed its pale pewter glow through the slit in the window designed not for moonlight but for arrows. Ergo, it was still rather dark. But you get the picture.
Sternly She rose to consult the cell-antir, which positively glowed with the intensity of a high intensity beam light. "It's a small, small world after all," it intoned, even it, too, betraying her feelings.
Here in all its splendour hear the song. And she fell into a breathless, lung-trembling, panting sort of memory in which all her pain departed from her. And Etceteron danced under the moonrise in the forest glade and she came upon him and was enchanted. And his person was lit with the light of the leaves of the not-magic bushes and his voice rang with the clear waters of a good scotch distillery and he was in his full howl and she strayed long in the woods. And as they looked upon each other doom fell upon them (There was a dark, dank mist that night and both risked pneumonia in their bare feet.) and they loved each other and came the daylight she slipped from his arms before she would have to explain to him the intricacies of elven vows. That came later when they faced the wrath of Daddy and Mummy Dearest.
A sudden knock at the door, however, ensured that she would not succumb to hyperventilation. She was ready to slaughter the intruder but denied herself that satisfaction, delivering instead a simple brief cuff to the right side of the head. When She saw what was being delivered up to her, the very sword Wylkynsion itself, which was the cause of so much of her lovelornness (the pieces of the Ent which she had sundered not mattering to her at this delicate moment in her psychic drama), her wrath was wrought up to its worst and most wretched pitch.
" 'Ere, wotcha, cutie. Yew looks like a right little tickler," sang Wylkynsion at his most insouciant.
"You! You, who took him from me!" She keened, having been very keen upon his owner once upon a time.
"Yew got a problem wif 'at?" he retorted.
"You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought."
"Wot are yew on, Moonshine?" he retorted. "Sheaths interfere wif me business."
"Here is She, daughter of Dunfartin, Dreaded Dark Lady of Minus Moreghoul, Queen of the Host of the Nasties, Bearer of Grievous Hurt, Victorious in Battle, Foresaken in Love, whose hands bring hurt, the once and future Vinaigrettiel, etc. etc. etc. You shall be unforged."
"Yew gonna make summat of that?" the sword proclaimed, with a touch of worry to his bravadoccio.
And She fell upon the sword and had her way with it.
"So this is love,"
Here in all its splendour hear the song. Wylkynsion cried out with his final breath.
She jumped upon him, smashing him and bashing him worse than a fabled musician of the Seventh Age would ever treat any of his guitars until the light was gone from the great sword and it was pounded into a hundred and one shards.
Here in all its splendour hear the song. .
"When you wish upon a star,"
Here in all its splendour hear the song. she said to the sundered pieces, you might be reforged."
Then, suddenly bereft of her hatred, She took herself to her mirror and saw there an image whose like she had not known for many a year. Yes, there She saw once again Vinaigrettiel, the Col-i-Flaur of Careless Gardenhon, the younger twin sister of Saladriel, doomed ever to remain in her sister's shadow until she had decided to become the Aredhel of the royal elven family.
And Vinaigrettiel rang for Friday and told him to bring the prisoner--that word which once would so have thrilled her--to the courtyard.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The moonlight shed its pewter, silver, lead and other metallic reflections over the similarly grey and washed out flagstone. She stood nervously watching the Lord of Dun Sóbrin walk towards her, a sheepish, dopy grin overtaking his face as if of some romantic poem he had drunk.
"Erm, hi," he said eloquently. "Waiting up for your daughter to come home from the prom?"
"My daughter was lost to me many years ago. She was taken from me after you departed."
"What! How dare they! You were her mother and the finest, most thoughtful and loving and selfless mother that ever a child could desire," said Earnur with cliched sincerity.
"They called me unfit."
"How so?"
"They said I was a bad role model, loving outside my race and class, loving you instead of forsaking all others for her dead elven father. And they thought that was more merciful than throwing me on top of his funeral pyre."
"Would that I had been there to defend your honour," he spoke valiantly.
"You could have been but you choose Wylkynsion."
"Oh, right. Sorry about that."
Lord Etceteron coughed and rattled his chains.
She walked up to him and ran her fingers up and down his restraints, testing for the weakest link, but there would never be one with this first of her best manly men. With a sigh and heart-rendering sob, which wracked her bosom so that it rose high to majestic proportions, which he would have noticed had he not been so abashed at their reunion, she released him. And the chains were no longer upon his limbs. Nor upon hers. And they danced together in the moonlight oblivious to the hour until suddenly the clock struck twelve and she ran from his grasp.
Before his very bloodshot eyes, she changed. The straps and buckles, with strangely unnecessary leather and metal accoutrements, fell from her. Her enormous fan of a collar that reached above the crown of her head came loose. The gel and hairspray betrayed their brand promises and her raven locks tumbled down upon her neck and shoulders. The nightmarish vision was gone and Earnur was gazing in astonishment once again at Vinaigrettiel and Vinaigrettiel was herself amazed.
She slipped from his arms (this cannot be said too often) and ran away.
"Wait, wait, I want to save you. Or something," he called plaintively.
"You already have," she called back. "I must see to Minus Moreghoul now. I shall go sign a contract with Disney Enterprises. We shall build a Tolkien World here to rival EuroDisney. I must do it before Kuruharan beats me to it. We can have a real outing."
(Yes, Virginia, there are miracles in marketing.)
"Wait, wait, come back. Come back."
Too late!
A screech of tires, the busting glass, the painful sound that Earnur heard last.
"Hold me now for a little while."
He held her close and kissed their last kiss and he found a love that he knew he had missed. And her lover's fea went not to Mandos for she shared his doom.
And Lord Etceteron, somewhat more sobrely, gathered to him the pieces of the Ent that had been sundered, the Bow and the Great Foozle, and the shards of Wylkynsion, and walked out of the gates of Minus Moreghoul no wiser than when he had gone in. For he would really need a drink now.
[ March 23, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]