12. Lords: XI
in a so-familiar voice.
‘Come off it,’ Maedhros says,
‘I know you’re not Findekáno
and I could say much for that state of affairs, but!
the issue at hand:
Give them back, won’t you,
before we’re forced to kill you.’
And oh, he calmly slaps him.
A little elf-man jags
The cheek of a Vala. What a world this Middle Earth is.
‘Nice hand thou’st got there, Maitimo,’
says Morgoth, spitting out a tooth
looking more than a little yellow.
‘Pity, of course, given the circum— ’
‘What circumstances?’ asks Maedhros.
Oh-oh. I think
Thou hast better sit down.
Thou knowest not,’
he begins in a galaxy-far-far-away way,
‘The late glorious Curufinwë – that less-said-the-better-one – ’
‘That’s my father we’re talking about!’
‘Yes, yes, about whom not enough can ever be said
Really, thou Eldar, anyway, when thou wast born,
The worlds in thee, and marvelled,
and thought to cast thee in armour divine.
Oh, crafty smith! He concocted with
A double bubble toil and trouble
A magick fire, verily
And we saw it – we that see everything –
Glowing limpid in its cauldron,
A boiling red-gold potion he wrought
First in secret, in the deeps of his forge.
‘Twas flaming crystal strange,
liquid and fell, with
strain of metal unknown, and gold,
How perilous power he devised it to contain
None knew then, or shall know again.
And by it’s side made he a fragrant balm
Of healing herb and cooling charm.
This he laid close by the cauldron; then lifted thee,
a squalling babe
With tender might, lo! e’en by thy right wrist
And in a breath, lowered thee
Into the scorching brew.
There came thy lady mother, who
took sight and screamed in agony
And hasting forth, drew thee from
the strange pot, and healed you quick
with the ready salve.
Yet deed was done, and so ever
fated art thou to last
Unmarked by spear, shaft or sword,
Or by any way consuméd, but for
the force of thine own will,
and then only in like fire,
fell and blazing, from full founts three;
Thy god, thy father, and/or – me.’
‘Sue me,’ says Maedhros sulkily
‘Your crude Valarin vocabulary, ohhh
But it is a terrible headache, Foultongue.
To put it plainly, before my wrath is sprung -
I didn’t come here for your fairy stories, Foe.
Give me my Silmarils, and I shall forth go!’
‘Oh, no,’ grins Morgoth.
Ropes glide forth from his dark walls, to bind
the fairest of limbs
‘Hello, what’s this
You don’t mean –’
To throw thee in my Balrog pit,
and I bet they’d love it too,
but did I forget to mention?
There is one other way, Maitimo.
His voice lowered in a sinister, grinning whisper,
‘- that thou shalt bring me joy and not grief
For all the years of thy life
If I, like thy father, hold thee
by that o’er which no elixir washed,
And so stays unwarmed, unarmed –
Thy right wrist, thy right wrist.
It is mine.’
Any and every resemblance to the well-known myth of Achilles is brazenly intentional. This one is for Acacea and her gentle amusement, with my thanks.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.