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The One Ring Forums: Tolkien Topics: Fan Art: In the dark of the night, a lone Fang-gir-iell keeps watch: Edit Log


Feb 3 2016, 2:44am

Views: 2569
In the dark of the night, a lone Fang-gir-iell keeps watch

The Fang-gir-iell shifted uncomfortably in her metal-studded leather. Na vedui, she thought. I am alone. She tried again to maneuver her shoulders in the white wooden deck chair so that the studs weren’t grinding into her back. Finally, she reluctantly rose, shuffled to the deck rail in her heavy dwarven boots, and retrieved a still-damp towel. It was brightly colored, decorated with an image of a large, thick, square of rotting bright yellow cheese. The cheese had huge eyes and a maniacal grin. And arms and legs. It appeared to be dancing next to a happy pink blob. She stuffed the offensive towel behind her shoulders and used both hands to painfully lift one heavy booted leg to the chair’s leg rest. Then the other thudded into place. She sighed in relief. Nae, but her feet hurt. No wonder dwarves were so hostile. They must all suffer from chronic foot pain from the overweight boots.

Her head hurt too. Most of the time she was able to discreetly dispose of the endless mugs of eye-watering healthful fruit drinks over the side of the barge, but tonight no opportunity had presented itself. Not without it looking peculiar. So she had forced a smile and tossed back the huge jar of “Shadow and Flame” that had been pushed into her hands. She could face most of the darkest mysteries of Middle Earth without fear. After all, she was immortal. But drinking down the jar of multi-colored fermented fruit juice and syrups – layers of bilious green and yellow and reddish orange, set alight and roiling with black smoke – had been one of the greatest tests of courage she had ever faced. Far, far worse than that army of transparent green ectoplasm.

But she was elvish ROYALTY. She wasn’t going to be outdone by Elrond’s former concierge, even she was travelling as a humble Fang-gir-iell. Lindir had happily quaffed three of the drinks, in celebration of his first tattoo. Now he was off with some of the women, who had offered a “hair weave” and “extensions” that they said would be “more dwarfy”. They would thicken his hair up, so his double-horned dwarf helmet wouldn’t spin around on his head all the time.

Above, a moon soared in a starry sky. The Partei-barge rocked gently at anchor. The Fang-gir-iell had volunteered for the night watch, which had earned her a mix of gratitude and friendly ribbing from her leather-clad, booted, companions. For Thorin Oakenshield had been in such an expansive mood after the combination of the chewy calamari seafood feast, and the rather uneven dwarf tattoo successfully applied to Lindir, that he had offered to play the harp for his loyal followers. Provided, of course, that Minty had received her nightly brushing and her bedtime apple. The happiness of Minty was paramount on the Partei Barge.

Her companions had even been suspicious that any of their number would willingly CHOOSE to miss such a monumental event. Thinking quickly, the Fang-gir-iell had opinioned that no sacrifice was too great, to protect the Heirs of Durin. Her companions were just inebriated enough to well up over this, nodding in teary agreement. More than one Fang-gir-iell muttered angry remarks about the “no-show Gandalf” and that “stoner wizard with the bird poo who flew right over”. Finally someone had said “but thank the Valar for Galadriel” which triggered another fiery toast to the Lady of the Light, and so the Fang-gir-iell had managed to claim the night watch for herself. She had been slapped on the back and told that Thorin might even let her feed Minty her nightly apple, an honor usually only performed by the hobbit.

And, the Fang-gir-iell thought, she NEEDED the time to compose her thoughts into Sindarin serenity. When had it all spiraled so out of control? She remembered a time, when the Greenwood’s Prince had been the toast of Middle Earth. Oh, there had been the grubby lank companion, for those that went for the gritty type. But even though the prince was ostensibly the faithful friend, that relationship had only added to the allure.

And she had to admit, a large contingent of the faithful still cheered the appearance of the golden Prince of Mirkwood, and admired his spectacular athleticism and warrior prowess. But, the HUMILIATION of it all was wearing at her.

It was a few years ago when the first hints had come, that something was terribly wrong. Human women collecting berries and mushrooms from the edge of the forest giggling over “hawt dwarves” and “Thorin Smoken’shield”. A voice like flame under your skin and dark hair you just wanted to grab and breathe, they gushed. OMG! The elves guarding Mirkwood had overheard, and decided that the women had stumbled into a patch of puffballs and gotten faces full of ‘shroom spores. It wouldn’t be the first time, the elves laughed. That’s what happened when the race of men messed around in the mysterious realm of the Elven King. The humans besotted with a race of smelly, hairy beings (who could barely move for the weight of their boots) were simply suffering from the effects of fey elven forest magic. So at the time, nothing had been thought of it. Elves were ALWAYS the prettiest.

If only she had known. That was the beginning. It got worse. Because the next year, on patrol, the Mirkwood elves began to find parchments left on trees. Appallingly, they weren’t addressed to the Prince of Mirkwood, as was typical. They were addressed to the prince’s FATHER. Some were long treatises praising the “pale silver silken fall” of Thranduil’s hair, or his “sapphire eyes and sculpted cheekbones”. Others talked about how the Elven King’s “Bourbon French vanilla voice” haunted their dreams. It was embarrassing, and there seemed to be no end to the imagination of the writers. The worst of the notes apologized, but said things like “sorry, the prince needed to move over, as his Daddy was in town…”

Thranduil of course had simply taken it all as his due. Naturally, he said. Because I’m FABULOUS. He didn’t see much point in discussing the obvious.

Finally, after running a gauntlet of jokes about bats and air-walking, the prince of Mirkwood had made his way north after the great battle. When he had finally found the grim-faced Dúnedain, they had been suspicious of a lone woodland elf asking after a young boy. That was pretty creepy, they had said, and the Rangers of the North had their own way of meting out justice here in the wilderness. The woodland prince had to shoot quite a number of weapons out of their hands, to prove he could be trusted.

Only to be informed that the son of Arathorn was being fostered at Rivendell. Defeated and completely out of trail mix, the woodland prince had made his way back to Mirkwood forest. There he had found the Captain of the Woodland Guard sporting what looked like black pajamas and practicing something Tauriel said was “Muay Thai”. She was never going to lose to some ORC again, she said. When the prince tried to say how glad he was that Thranduil had lifted her banishment, she had distractedly answered “Wise man never play leapfrog with a unicorn” and kicked through a wall.

And so here he/she was, a Fang-gir-iell on the Partei-Barge. Ostensibly a spy for the fabulous Thranduil. But it wasn’t easy, being in the camp of the enemy. You’d think, after saving their beloved Thorin’s life at Ravenhill, that the Prince of the Woodland would be feted as much as the Lady Galadriel (for her engineering of the preservation of the Durins, in the face of all canon). But oh-no. She’d had to sit and grin when a particularly snarky Fang-gir-iell had compared the Woodland Prince’s use of Orcrist to Thorin Oakenshield’s.

Thorin Oakenshield had the grace of the Mearas, the Fang-gir-iell enthused, he was like a black stallion running free on the plains of Rohan! Whereas Legolas, who had STOLEN Orcrist, looked like he was “waving around one of those electronic bug zappers, you know, the ones that look like a tennis racket.”

The Prince of Mirkwood, long known for his spectacular athletic grace, had overheard that his sword technique “looked like that woman beating the quilt out in Dale.” Were these Fang-gir-iells just stupid? Of course you didn’t leave an enemy with a weapon, and besides, Orcrist was an ELVISH sword! Never mind the thing was so heavy, every time he made an effortless orc-slide the thing banged against his legs, leaving bruises on his fair elven skin. The prince had been so happy to get back to his badass twirly knives, and even that was getting upstaged by Tauriel!

The Fang-gir-iell stared moodily over the rail at the lapping dark River waters. She didn’t even have a proper bow by her side. Instead, it was one of those heavy dwarvish ones. At least the relentless pounding of the Partei-girl folk songs had been replaced by the gentle, distant tones of Thorin’s harp and the muffled thumps of Fili hammering out another knife. Maybe by tomorrow she’d get that last Partei-girl song out of her head:

And I'm too sexy for your party!
Too sexy for your party!
No way I'm disco dancing!

I'm a model, you know what I mean…
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk, yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk…

She shuddered at the idea of Thranduil ever hearing THAT one. Because, it would mean, an eternity of the Halls of the Woodland King echoing with lines like “And I'm too sexy for my hat…” Every day. Forever. (Not that Thranduil had EVER worn a hat on his perfect shimmering silken swath of hair. It was a crown or a mithril circlet, tastefully adorned with a superbly cut gemstone.)

But then, in the midst of her gloomy thoughts, the flash of something against the dark waters caught her elvish eyes. Was it simply a fish, trying to snatch a meal? The Fang-gir-iell sat up and carefully, silently, maneuvered one aching leg to the deck. Then the other. She nocked an arrow to the bow with swift hands, as a sibilant hissing came to her ears. The Fang-girl-iell moved soundlessly to crouch against Bilbo’s portable coffee bar, which had been parked next to the deck rail for the night.

“Stole it, he did, my PRECIOUSSS…tricksy hobbit...thief…yes, my Preciousss, we kills him, coming my Precioussss…”

The Fang-gir-iell waited, a shadow in the dark. She heard wet slaps and saw two fleshy, but gnarled hands with long fingers reach and cling to the railing. A large pale head with a pair of round glowing eyes popped up. “Pppppppreeeeciossssss” the jagged-toothed mouth of the thing softly hissed.

“Eeuw,” thought the Fang-gir-iell. (Although this was small fry compared to the typical residents of the Mirkwood forest, which included gigantic spiders and centipedes that could take off a limb). She calmly loosed her arrow.

At that distance, the arrow hit the thing right between the eyes and passed through the bulbous head. After all, it was a dwarf bow, designed for power. The thing grabbed convulsively at the coffee bar with its pale hands and pulled it over as it fell to the water. The Fang-girl-iell nocked another arrow and aimed down from the rail. The next arrow hit the middle of the thing’s scrawny chest. No harm in making sure.

The deck immediately lit with light as the Fang-gir-iell was surrounded by her well-armed companions, who had responded instantly to the sound of the overturned coffee bar. The Heirs of Durin, their female companions, and Bilbo stared at the pale ungainly creature bobbing in the current. “What is that?” asked Kili, handsome face grimacing in disgust. Thorin Oakenshield looked carefully at the creature, which was definitely no longer any kind of threat. The slow current was already moving the thing away from the boat. He shrugged #Majestically and smiled at his nephew. “Some sort of runt goblin. An outcast. Perhaps driven by the smell of the calamari, and so sought an easy meal.”

The dwarf king gazed steadily at the Fang-gir-iell still holding a bow, who cast her eyes down shyly. “Nice work,” he smiled, causing a rush of blood to the brains of the surrounding Fang-gir-iells. When the Fang-gir-iell appeared to be too overcome to respond, he added by way of reward, “I am sure Bilbo won’t mind if you give Minty her apple tomorrow. In the meantime, let us continue the singing of “Misty Mountains Cold” here on the deck, so that Minty will not be disturbed the rest of the night.” But he looked hard at the downcast head of the Fang-girl-iell, while the women cheered at the thought of the night breeze gently swirling Thorin’s chocolate waterfall of hair. Those of a more artistic bent ran to grab their sketch pads.

Bilbo, eyes fixed, continued to watch the pale thing as it floated out of sight. “Mine,” he muttered, clutching at his coat. “Mine”. Fili overheard and placed a friendly hand around the hobbit. “Now, Bilbo, we’ve talked about this. Of course the movies are yours! You’re still not upset about people saying the movies are about Thorin and elves and all that rot, are you? There’s charts showing the number of lines for each character and screen time and everything. Think how I feel.”

“We love you, Fili!” gushed the Partei-girls. “And we love Bilbo!” Bilbo gasped for air as he was swarmed by enthusiastic females hugging him. At least it was softer than the rib-cracking embrace of the dwarf king.

“There, see?” Fili squeezed the Hobbit’s shoulders as Bilbo wheezed. The hobbit finally smiled, and his pupils weren’t as dilated, although he was still clutching his jacket. “Now c’mon, let’s go sit near Thorin, you know how male bonding makes the Fang-gir-iells happy! Besides, Lindir wants to show off his new tattoo again…”

The next day, industrious river hobbits, fishing from their little coracles, told stories to tourists of an unpleasant looking dead creature that had floated by. Grainy pictures went viral on the Internet. The grey men were real, it was said.

At a hastily arranged press conference a kindly-face man in a scarf was courteously, but firmly, fending off inquisitive reporters. “No, the workshop most certainly did not place unused props around New Zealand as a prank. We don’t waste resources that way. No, as far as I know, no real aliens are living on the offshore islands. No, I am sure that New Zealand is not the “new Roswell”! Of course we have bright lights in the sky, we have towns and cities just like everyone else…AND an airport, thank you very much.”

It was finally over. The man mopped his face and padded down the hall of the quiet grey building, and slipped inside to a darkened room. He exchanged worried looks with the dark haired woman dressed in the Thorin Oakenshield T-shirt. She was sitting on a leather couch next to a man in a rumpled white shirt, who had his head in his hands. “Those &*^%$ Hair Freaks,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t them. First the Balrog, now Gollum. I can see the web posts now. “The Betrayal of Trust” and like that. And the re-boot was all for them. It was going to be my big surprise for the fans!”

“Now what am I supposed to do? That’s a pivotal moment! It’s not as though I can have Frodo actually fall into the Fires of Mount Doom…”

“There, there,” soothed the dark-haired woman, who was in a terrific mood in spite of the latest crisis. After all, she had a special barbecue to look forward to. “You’ve forgotten our secret weapons. First, we’ve got amazing CGI. And second, Legolas. And third, we’ve got Tauriel. We can make it a sort of bridge film...it’ll be AMAZING.”

(This post was edited by Avandel on Feb 3 2016, 2:46am)

Edit Log:
Post edited by Avandel (Half-elven) on Feb 3 2016, 2:46am

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