4. In which the Sues goes west
The fair elf-maiden Rapúnzelidion rode through the forest, singing a happy song about happy things while her eyes searched the bushes. Her sister Malivária, who rode behind her, made an ugly face.
“You don’t think-...” she began.
Rapúnzelidion waved a hand impatiently at her, a sign to remain silent. She started to sing a little bit louder. The song was in elvish, and it went something like this;
“All the pretty butterflies
Dancing in the sunlight
Are they not sweet?
Oh, yes, so sweet
Dance little butterfly
Sweet sweet butterfly
Dancing in the sunlight...”
Rapúnzelidion had a beautiful singing-voice, which was known all over Middle Earth by now. Her repertoire was rather dull, though. But still, even the animals would come out of their hidings to listen to the wonderful tones of her songs.
One cute fuzzy bunny had chosen this very moment to do just that. It sat right there in the sunlight, charmed by the lovely tune. It wrinkled its nose and thought;
“I am a happy bunny, indeed, to get to listen to this lovely tune.”
Something went Sswissssh. And then the bunny’s world changed rather abruptly, and faded away.
Rapúnzelidion got off her horse and picked up the late bunny, which had been nailed to the ground by a perfectly aimed arrow. She looked around.
“Well, this is a place as good as any. We might as well camp here,” she said.
Malivária got off her horse. “It was about time you got something, I was about to starve to death!” she grunted.
Rapúnzelidion looked critically at her sister. “I don’t think you could have suffered that much from waiting,” she said.
“Shut up!” Malivária snapped. She waved her hair. It reflected the sunlight and shone like gold as it hung down to heir waist.
Rapúnzelidion smiled wryly at her and pulled out her knife. She begun to skin the bunny as Malivária watched in horrified fascination.
“It’s so messy!” she said and curled her lip.
“Why don’t you get a fire going?” Rapúnzelidion suggested.
“Oh, well.” Malivária sighed, and looked at a fallen tree. It burst into flames under her gaze.
Rapúnzelidion glared at her. “Might as well set the whole forest on fire, hm?”
Malivária shrugged. “I could, you know,” she said. “After all, it’s not my forest.”
Rapúnzelidion thought hard about this. “No, that’s true,” she said, eventually. “I would prefer it though, if you didn’t set fire to it while I’m still in it.”
“Deal,” said Malivária.
In Rohan, home of the Horse Lords, things weren’t, as earlier pointed out, at their best. Nothing was taken cared of these days, and no one seemed to be doing anything important. Well, that is to say, breeding a new population might seem important, but the point is, you can’t keep doing it all the time.
OK, so maybe you can. The point is that you shouldn’t.
Gríma Wormtongue, councillor of Théoden king, was not very happy about this. He wasn’t, in fact, ever really happy about anything, but he specifically wasn’t happy about this.
Gríma was concerned. This wasn’t because he was a loyal servant, who cared for the country and worried whenever something went wrong. He wasn’t exactly a loyal servant. He was more of a disloyal servant. Quite frankly, Gríma Wormtongue was a traitor, who plotted against the country and wished it no good.
But that was just the point. Gríma didn’t really care about Rohan. That’s what got him into the whole traitor-business in the first place. But nowadays, nobody seemed to care about Rohan. And plotting just wasn’t fun anymore.
He didn’t know what to do. He’d never had much spare time, and when he had any, he’d used it for plotting. But now, there was nothing left to plot against. Everyone who stood against him had hurried off somewhere to praise those young ladies who had arrived not too long ago. He hadn’t really paid much attention to them at first, and then, when he did, it had been too late. They were everywhere.
Gríma settled down on the empty throne, just to do something. He did have a reputation as an evil advisor to live up to, and he had already tried on the crown and the king’s cloak. He had looked into a mirror, and realized that the crown kept sliding down into his face. So he’d put it back on the empty throne. The king was probably of dancing with the elves. In a manner of speaking. Gríma shrugged.
Some time passed. Everything was quiet. And peaceful. And extremely dull. He had just decided that he’d have a go with the crown again, just for the hell of it, when something finally happened.
What happened was this; the door burst open and daylight poured into the hall. Gríma shadowed his eyes. A young woman stepped in, moving with feline grace. Gríma recognized her as one of the elf-maidens. She stepped forward, and her brows frowned slightly as she set eyes on Gríma.
“You be the king?” she asked in a smooth, yet demanding voice.
Gríma realized that he was wearing the crown. Then he thought “What the heck” and said;
“Um, yes. Sure. That is to say, yes, we be the king.”
The woman gave him a critical glance, and then she shrugged. “I seek Éomer, who is said to be the most handsome man in all of Rohan,” she said.
“Is he?” Gríma said, before he could stop himself. “I mean, er, young Éomer is not in Edoras for the moment. Can I take a message?” he added, hoping for something to plot against.
“Where is he?” asked the elf and put her hands on her delicate hips. “I will not leave until you tell me of his current residence!”
Gríma watched her, slightly dazed, while he considered the benefits of him not telling and her not leaving. Then he spotted the slender crossbow which was attached to her belt, and thought better of it. Pity, though. She sure was attractive.
“He got a message. Some sort of gathering, to which he was called. In Rivendell, I think it was,” he said instead.
The elf-lady’s expression changed, and a smile as bright as the sun blinded Gríma for a moment.
“How very nice! I shall be on my way then,” she said and turned towards the door. Then something occurred to her, and she turned back to him.
“Oh, and if any of my sisters would ask for dear Éomer, you wouldn’t tell them where to find him, would you?” she looked slightly concerned.
“Well, no, of course not,” Gríma reassured her.
She smiled again and strode away. Gríma thought for two seconds, and then picked a small silver bell out of his pocket. He rang the bell. He waited. Then two men stepped out from a side door and approached him. Gríma smiled, and whispered an order.
The two men looked at him, and then at each other. Then, they trotted off. They weren’t paid to ask questions.
Gríma sighed, but this time, it was a happier sigh.
The Mary Sues had all left Rohan before midnight.
“Ah,” thought Gríma, “Good old plotting!”
Saruman the White had received a gift. It was a puppy. The giver, a young elf-maiden named Bëowulfiária, or Bëw for short, had draped her slender body on the divan in his library. She was dressed, or undressed, depending on which angle you’d view her from, in layers of white lace, slightly transparent, which decorated her body like would a golden frame decorate a masterpiece of artworks.
Saruman wasn’t really sure of what this gift was supposed to mean. He wasn’t sure why this young lady had come here, either. She was... well, wondrous was a word that came to mind. But Saruman didn’t really feel comfortable with that word. He tried handsome. No. That was not it.
Finally, he settled for pretty. It was close enough and it didn’t make him sweat. He looked down at the puppy again.
“What did you say its name was?” he asked.
“Spot,” she whispered.
Saruman swallowed. This girl was strange, indeed. She had this way of making even the simplest word sound... naughty.
“Oh,” he said.
The puppy lived up to his name by leaving one on the carpet.
“Um,” said Saruman, “Could you perhaps make it... er... not doing that?”
Bëw leaned forward and hissed;
Spot whimpered, and Saruman felt an urgent need to do likewise. He fought it down. Bëw leaned back in a graceful manner and smiled at him.
“It’s all about commands, you know. One can teach them to do almost anything.”
“Really? Like what?” Saruman asked.
“Oh, this and that,” said Bëw vaguely. “Now, why don’t you come here and I’ll teach you a thing or two?”
Saruman looked at Spot the dog and thought for a moment.
“Fetch a book for me,” he tried.
Spot wagged his tail happily.
“No, not like that. You have got to make it short orders, like ‘sit’,” Bëw said. “Now, we can play with the dog later. I had a different game in mind...” she left the sentence hanging in the air. She didn’t gain the effect she’d hoped for.
“Sit,” said Saruman.
Spot sat down. He remained seated for almost three seconds, then he jumped up and did the tail-thingy again.
“He obeyed my will!” Saruman exclaimed, “This will be so much fun!”
Bëw watched him in disbelief. Never before had she failed like this! She had hoped for a successful seduction and a place at the top, knowing that Saruman was the most powerful wizard in Middle Earth. It had been a great plan. But now, Spot the dog didn’t seem to be such a great idea.
She glared at the puppy. Spot wagged his tail at her. Bëowulfiária raised her pretty foot to kick the dog, but Saruman spotted it.
“You intend to hurt my gift?!” he called out.
Bëw looked up, truly overcome by indignation.
“You raise your voice at me?” she asked in a frosty tone.
“You meant to kick him! I saw you!” Saruman yelled.
Bëw snorted. She would have none of this. She could find at least ten men who were better than that wizard. And better looking. She got up and made sure to adjust her revealing dress carefully. Just to make sure that he’d see what he was missing.
“You have fun with your dog, then,” she hissed and swept out of the room. “I’ll go find myself a powerful man,” she added from the doorway.
And then she was gone.
Saruman shook his head. Then he called at Spot:
“Come, doggie doggie, come Spottie!”
And Spot came.
“Power,” Saruman thought. He knew power all right. He could recognize it wherever it turned up.
“Spot, Sit!” said Saruman.
And Spot sat.
“Today the dog,” he thought. “Tomorrow... the World!”
The trap was set. Now, all they could do was wait. The Mary Sues would take their time, but they would come. And when they did... Oh, when they did, their pretty faces wouldn’t be worth much. Oh no.
“They are on their way,” said Galadriel. “I can feel it. I feel it in the water. I can smell it in the air. But most of all, I feel it in the relieved sigh that comes from the lands The Mary Sues have abandoned.”
“We will be here, waiting for them”, said Legolas. “We will be ready.”
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.