[Durelin]

Valde had been unable to control himself, and had sprung up from his desk, in order to better slam his fist upon the top of it in clear agitation. He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows as he frowned, so that the two furry bars formed a v-shape that was forever after known as the ‘angry eyebrow,’ and used in many a crude drawing without Valde Delego’s permission, which he would have frowned upon immensely. For he knew artwork. All true artists were tragic, to the heart, and he knew tragedy. And this class was a true tragedy in the making. O how it pained his heart.

“Modernization, Mr. Delego?”

“That’s surely what it is. I have never seen a more wretched country! Even it’s educational system is weakened by the machinations of modernization that tears up the roots this land was founded on!” He slammed his fist down with a rattling thud. “Just look at it! A Casino, a den of debauchery in place of a glorious...though volcanic...mountain! A massive and overly intricately difficult to maneuver spider’s web of roadway filled with aggressive and predatory orcs in place of what was once home to orcs who peacefully, and clearly with less aggression, prepared for war! A University that instructs its students in the ways of taking something that was adored and altering it till it is unrecognizable! Dark Lord or not Dark Lord, Mordor has gone from bad to worse. No wonder you were all sent here! It’s despicable.”

The troll eyed him. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Delego?”

“No, I am not!” he cried, his voice suddenly ringing with pride. “Shakespeardil, the Bard that almost but did not quite slay Smaug, cannot suffer any longer!” he shouted, raising a fist in the air, and holding his head high. “He was beloved in his time, let him be loved again, just as he was so long ago!”

There was scattered applause, and Valde flourished a bow, while the troll professor simply looked on. He seemed much more shocked now, perhaps by the sudden show of support for the Lead Tragic Actor’s cause from three whole people. Valde looked surprised as well, but continued on without hesitation. Swirling his long coat with grace and grandeur befitting one of his standing, he seized the plumed hat from atop the professor’s head, and donned it himself. “Now...we are going to do this properly...” He looked out over the classroom from the front of the class, ignoring the professor, who was now clutching his obviously bald and clearly buffed daily head, embarrassed by its uncovering, and thus doing his best to disappear into a corner. Valde frowned at the three faces that he saw, counting them over a few times to make sure he was not missing anyone. “Properly...with four players...somehow.”

He was liking this less and less, and had raised a pondering hand to his chin when the door suddenly flew open, and he turned to see the horror that had entered what was now his classroom.

Raising a trembling hand to what had just passed through the door, Valde cried out, attempting to banish it with strong words, and a violent wave of his hand. “Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!”*

“What on earth are you shouting about, boy?” the man who had entered asked.

“Valde Delego! You dare speak to your father and I that way?!” cried the man’s counterpart in a shrill voice.

The parents of the Lead Tragic Actor had entered, and it seemed that their arrival was as if they had come from the grave to Valde, who had turned even paler than normal, and who trembled with both fear and anger, a hint of madness in his eye that strikingly resembled guilt. If one did not know the man’s background, they would think he was feeling a kind of guilt that resulted from stealing cookies from a jar, but it was indeed far different, as Shakespeardil knew well.

“But mother...” Valde began, his voice much smaller, with a higher pitch to it that seemed to diminish any power in his act. Perhaps it was the cookies, after all.

“Don’t you give me that!” The woman approached him, and gave the man a good smack to his head. She had never been one for modernization, and so felt that a good ol’ fashion smacking around of her children was the best way to raise them right. The poor woman felt she had failed with this one, particularly since he had ended up in Mordor. And, even more unfortunate for her, was that her physical reprimand did not good. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

“Do not strike me, foul spectre!”

“Spectre?!” his father cried out, striding toward his son to join his wife. “How dare you call your mother that!”

“You are but foul shades, reflections of memories long past that haunt me still!”

His mother and father turned to each other with inquisitive looks. They muttered to each other words such as: “What is he saying?”; “Has he gone over the edge then?”; “Well I bet it was you that did push him.”; and the like.

“I’m saying you two are just ghosts,” Valde informed them, clarifying. “You can’t be here. You’ve long been dead, and that’s why my childhood was so tragic, left as an orphan at the wee age of four years...”

His mother burst out laughing, while his father simply stood in shock. “Four years?” his mother inquired, gasping through her wheezing laughed, “Oh my dear, you know very well you weren’t out of our house until you were well near thirty...”

Valde simply stared at her, returning his eyebrows to the v-shape that he would later so regret not trademarking and copyrighting for all its worth, though that would have modernized even his broodingly angry stare. His mother trailed off in her giggling, and his father’s shock lasted only until the two burst into tears, each wailing about how they had failed their son, sobbing about repressed memories and how they should have had him psychoanalyzed when they had the chance. Valde rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and trying very hard to ignore his parents’ presence.

“Oh fine,” he finally said begrudgingly, and with a heavy sigh. “I know, you exist. We’ll just say you were abusive to me as a child. That will explain everything.” He eyed them. “Though that doesn’t mean you are now. We’ve reconciled, okay?” He seized each of their hands in turn, and gave them a quick shake. “There, reconciled. Now, I need players for Shakespeardil’s King Fëar. You, father, will…” he trailed off. “Wait…how did you get to Mordor?”

“You assigned us, silly boy.”

“Oh.” Valde eyed his parents uneasily. “Remember we’re reconciled…” he said nervously, before quickly turning back to the rest of the class.

“Now, I hope only one of you Fools can sing.”

*Again, apologies to the Bard