Middle-Earth And How I Saved It - Lord of the Rings parody (Chapter 3)
Title: Middle Earth And How I Saved It (or, Who Cares About Some Tacky Ring Anyway?)
Chapter: 3 (Suvi's POV)
Fandoms: Lord of the Rings in theory, but mainly FF.net. :p
Characters/pairings: Vaguely as canon, but with added Sue.
Warnings: Crack. People who write Tenth Walker fics for serious may feel pretty damn insulted.
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien, who must be turning in his grave.
Summary: My name is Siltasuvi Araeina Raven Tri’shah Iuhlmati Ellenor Isabella Geliarae Arwen Sarabelle Kitsune Hmrevenueandcustoms Smith, and I'm the one fated to save Middle-Earth.
No, really.
Why are you looking at me so disbelievingly?
A/N: I needed a crack break at this point. So I had one. XD
It occurs to me that at some point, I should probably thank yarukage, who reads through this stuff every time I finish a chapter, then tells me I'm awesome for writing it and the best twin sister she's ever had. Yeah, it's a bit of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? =/ Thanks anyway, yarukage.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Leggie-poo was balled up in the shade of the trees, rocking to and fro manically. Well, I don’t know why! All I did was tell him what a lemon was, and what slash meant! God, some people, right? Can’t take their medicine.
But I could let him off, because oh my God, he was hot! HOT! HOT!And did I mention HOTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!?
…He was very, very hot. I’m drooling just thinking about how hot he was.
You’d think so too. That he was hot, I mean.
He looked just like he did in the films! Only without any of the features he had in the films.
Well… he had blonde hair and pointy ears. Does that count?
Shut up, it counts.
I didn’t fancy him at all, though. I mean, sure, he was hot. And sure, he was everything I had dreamed of. And sure, he was charming, clever, and brave. But he hadn’t been listening to my explanation of how I got here at all! Selfish bastard. I mean, he could have the common courtesy not to ignore somebody who was…
“…you been here?”
“Pardon?” I asked icily. Stupid Aragorn had been blathering on while I was trying to have some alone time. I mean, the nerve of some people!
“I said, how long have you been here?” He sounded a little irritable. Well, you’ve got no right to get on your high horse, I thought angrily. You’re the one who interrupted my hair-braiding time. Don’t blame me if I don’t give 101% of my attention to whatever it is you’re yapping on about.
I didn’t say any of this, of course. I’m far too polite. Instead, I just shrugged expressively, and went back to braiding my hair.
“What does she say, Aragorn?” A small, curly-haired hobbit with blondish hair - I guessed Sam - appeared from behind the arrogant bastard of a Ranger.
OMIGOD! Kawaiiiiiiiiii!
“Sam!” I shouted, and abandoned my hair for the moment in order to leap up, perfectly white teeth flashing in a grin, and throw my arms around him. He was so small! And so cuuuuute! I ruffled his hair, then chucked him under the chin. “Who’s my little snookums, den? Who’s my little snookie-wookie?”
“That would be the Ringbearer,” Boromir informed me. For some reason, his voice was muffled, as though he were trying not to laugh.
“Wasn’t the Ring a bit of a clue?” I swear I heard Gimli mutter.
No! I took a step back, looking the hobbit up and down (but mostly down, haha!). This couldn’t be Frodo Baggins! His hair wasn’t dark enough! And he looked nothing like Elijah Wood!
He was still adorable, though! Small people are like that. Except Gimli, admittedly, who stank to high heaven. Actually, now I come to think of it, they all did. Hadn’t these people ever heard of deodorant? Or daily bathing, for that matter?
“And I’m fifty years old!” he protested, as I bent down to ruffle his hair again. “Stop doing that!”
“Go right on,” another hobbit - I wasn’t even going to try to guess which - told me from the other side of the clearing, with a smile that looked almost mischievous crossing his face.
“Yes,” yet another hobbit agreed, with a definite smirk, “go right ahead.”
“Merry! Pippin!” Frodo ducked away, almost as though he didn’t like me hugging him. But I knew better. He was just being silly. I bent down and hugged him again, lifting him right off the ground.
“Who’s my diddums? Who’s a good hobbit?”
I knew he’d said he was, like, three times my age (even though he totally doesn’t look it and I think he was lying) but it just felt right!
***
About twenty minutes later, after I’d been forcibly pulled off Frodo - and let me just take a minute to say what the fuck, Aragorn? Just because he’s gone blue doesn’t mean I should stop sharing the love - and he had joined Leggie-poo in sitting and rocking (I swear to God, these Middle-Earth people have very fragile mental health), the adrenaline wore off, and I realised how bad things were.
I was on another world.
I had no way of getting home.
Legolas didn’t look like Orlando Bloom at all!
Single crystalline tears flooded down my face like a particularly heavy monsoon in the Amazon. Burying my pale, perfectly made-up face in my hands, I wept bitterly - just as well I was wearing waterproof mascara. Nobody offered me a tissue.
Well, isn’t that just bloody typical? I bet it’s because I’m a girl. They think I should have my own tissues. Well, that or they don’t own tissues, but I mean, really, how likely is that?
“Pull yourself together,” Aragorn was telling Leggie-poo, in Elvish. Well, it was either that or “Take me now, beneath the light of Elendil, you gorgeous Elven stud.” The sendaway Elvish course I did was a bit fuzzy on fine detail like that.
“Master Frodo?” The fourth of the hobbits was crouching next to the Ringbearer, looking concerned. Frodo himself was now patting his face and muttering some kind of nonsense about his cheeks being pinched into oblivion.
What got me was that they were all clustering around the feeble-minded members of the Fellowship who just couldn’t take a little love - I personally think that Frodo must have had a neglectful childhood - and nobody had so much as offered me a tissue. I was weeping beautifully right in the centre of the clearing, single crystalline tears clattering around me like ball-bearings, and nobody even cared. It was just like at home!
Here’s the thing, though: all the people they were comforting were male in nature. Coincidence? I think not.
God, the blatant misogyny in this place makes me sick. It’s as bad as that time the people in that barbers’ refused to let me in because it was a “men’s hairdressers”! Bloody cheek! They might as well have called it a “whites-only hairdressers”! It’s the same sort of discrimination, that’s what people just don’t seem to get.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Weeping my heart out in the centre of the clearing.
Merry (I think; god, they all look the same to me) picked up one of my single crystalline tears on his fingertip, examining it thoughtfully.
“What’s this?” he asked. “Some sort of tiny diamond?”
Sweet, Merryorpippin. Sweet, but totally stupid. You can’t call me unobservant for making a perfectly understandable faux pas in the hobbit-identification business, then not tell the difference between a diamond and a single crystalline tear. All hobbits look the same, but any idiot knows that a single crystalline tear can be told apart from a diamond by the simple procedure of adding it to a titration of sulphuric acid and sodium hydroxide. It’s not my fault if you didn’t bring the appropriate materials with you.
“It’s probably a bit of glass,” Pippinormerry told him.
“Well, there’s an awful lot of glass in her eye, then,” Merryorpippin retorted.
Unable to take any more, I stopped the flow of single crystalline tears and glared at them. “It’s not a bit of glass or diamond!” I shouted, quite reasonably, given the circumstances. “It’s a single crystalline tear! Don’t you know anything!”
The hobbits looked as though they would have replied, but some elvish bastard picked that moment to distract them by sticking arrows inches away from their faces. I mean, sure, it’s partly their fault for having such lousy attention spans, but come on! What do elves have against me explaining things properly? First Leggie-poo, now this. I mean, what’s a girl to do?
A smug-looking face appeared between the branches; from the pointy ears and the fact that he talked Elvish to start with, I managed to divine that he was, in fact…
You won’t believe this…
An elf!
And he didn’t half look pleased with himself. Then he said what might just be the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.
“The girl cries so piercingly, we could have shot you through ten layers of sound-muffling insulation,” he said smoothly, and took a step towards us. It was, I think, around that point that his feet caught on the single crystalline tears scattered an inch thick all around me, and he skidded gracefully to a stop against a tree. Headfirst.
Well, it serves him right. Stupid Haldir couldn’t even say his line properly.
Chapter: 3 (Suvi's POV)
Fandoms: Lord of the Rings in theory, but mainly FF.net. :p
Characters/pairings: Vaguely as canon, but with added Sue.
Warnings: Crack. People who write Tenth Walker fics for serious may feel pretty damn insulted.
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien, who must be turning in his grave.
Summary: My name is Siltasuvi Araeina Raven Tri’shah Iuhlmati Ellenor Isabella Geliarae Arwen Sarabelle Kitsune Hmrevenueandcustoms Smith, and I'm the one fated to save Middle-Earth.
No, really.
Why are you looking at me so disbelievingly?
A/N: I needed a crack break at this point. So I had one. XD
It occurs to me that at some point, I should probably thank yarukage, who reads through this stuff every time I finish a chapter, then tells me I'm awesome for writing it and the best twin sister she's ever had. Yeah, it's a bit of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? =/ Thanks anyway, yarukage.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Leggie-poo was balled up in the shade of the trees, rocking to and fro manically. Well, I don’t know why! All I did was tell him what a lemon was, and what slash meant! God, some people, right? Can’t take their medicine.
But I could let him off, because oh my God, he was hot! HOT! HOT!And did I mention HOTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!?
…He was very, very hot. I’m drooling just thinking about how hot he was.
You’d think so too. That he was hot, I mean.
He looked just like he did in the films! Only without any of the features he had in the films.
Well… he had blonde hair and pointy ears. Does that count?
Shut up, it counts.
I didn’t fancy him at all, though. I mean, sure, he was hot. And sure, he was everything I had dreamed of. And sure, he was charming, clever, and brave. But he hadn’t been listening to my explanation of how I got here at all! Selfish bastard. I mean, he could have the common courtesy not to ignore somebody who was…
“…you been here?”
“Pardon?” I asked icily. Stupid Aragorn had been blathering on while I was trying to have some alone time. I mean, the nerve of some people!
“I said, how long have you been here?” He sounded a little irritable. Well, you’ve got no right to get on your high horse, I thought angrily. You’re the one who interrupted my hair-braiding time. Don’t blame me if I don’t give 101% of my attention to whatever it is you’re yapping on about.
I didn’t say any of this, of course. I’m far too polite. Instead, I just shrugged expressively, and went back to braiding my hair.
“What does she say, Aragorn?” A small, curly-haired hobbit with blondish hair - I guessed Sam - appeared from behind the arrogant bastard of a Ranger.
OMIGOD! Kawaiiiiiiiiii!
“Sam!” I shouted, and abandoned my hair for the moment in order to leap up, perfectly white teeth flashing in a grin, and throw my arms around him. He was so small! And so cuuuuute! I ruffled his hair, then chucked him under the chin. “Who’s my little snookums, den? Who’s my little snookie-wookie?”
“That would be the Ringbearer,” Boromir informed me. For some reason, his voice was muffled, as though he were trying not to laugh.
“Wasn’t the Ring a bit of a clue?” I swear I heard Gimli mutter.
No! I took a step back, looking the hobbit up and down (but mostly down, haha!). This couldn’t be Frodo Baggins! His hair wasn’t dark enough! And he looked nothing like Elijah Wood!
He was still adorable, though! Small people are like that. Except Gimli, admittedly, who stank to high heaven. Actually, now I come to think of it, they all did. Hadn’t these people ever heard of deodorant? Or daily bathing, for that matter?
“And I’m fifty years old!” he protested, as I bent down to ruffle his hair again. “Stop doing that!”
“Go right on,” another hobbit - I wasn’t even going to try to guess which - told me from the other side of the clearing, with a smile that looked almost mischievous crossing his face.
“Yes,” yet another hobbit agreed, with a definite smirk, “go right ahead.”
“Merry! Pippin!” Frodo ducked away, almost as though he didn’t like me hugging him. But I knew better. He was just being silly. I bent down and hugged him again, lifting him right off the ground.
“Who’s my diddums? Who’s a good hobbit?”
I knew he’d said he was, like, three times my age (even though he totally doesn’t look it and I think he was lying) but it just felt right!
***
About twenty minutes later, after I’d been forcibly pulled off Frodo - and let me just take a minute to say what the fuck, Aragorn? Just because he’s gone blue doesn’t mean I should stop sharing the love - and he had joined Leggie-poo in sitting and rocking (I swear to God, these Middle-Earth people have very fragile mental health), the adrenaline wore off, and I realised how bad things were.
I was on another world.
I had no way of getting home.
Legolas didn’t look like Orlando Bloom at all!
Single crystalline tears flooded down my face like a particularly heavy monsoon in the Amazon. Burying my pale, perfectly made-up face in my hands, I wept bitterly - just as well I was wearing waterproof mascara. Nobody offered me a tissue.
Well, isn’t that just bloody typical? I bet it’s because I’m a girl. They think I should have my own tissues. Well, that or they don’t own tissues, but I mean, really, how likely is that?
“Pull yourself together,” Aragorn was telling Leggie-poo, in Elvish. Well, it was either that or “Take me now, beneath the light of Elendil, you gorgeous Elven stud.” The sendaway Elvish course I did was a bit fuzzy on fine detail like that.
“Master Frodo?” The fourth of the hobbits was crouching next to the Ringbearer, looking concerned. Frodo himself was now patting his face and muttering some kind of nonsense about his cheeks being pinched into oblivion.
What got me was that they were all clustering around the feeble-minded members of the Fellowship who just couldn’t take a little love - I personally think that Frodo must have had a neglectful childhood - and nobody had so much as offered me a tissue. I was weeping beautifully right in the centre of the clearing, single crystalline tears clattering around me like ball-bearings, and nobody even cared. It was just like at home!
Here’s the thing, though: all the people they were comforting were male in nature. Coincidence? I think not.
God, the blatant misogyny in this place makes me sick. It’s as bad as that time the people in that barbers’ refused to let me in because it was a “men’s hairdressers”! Bloody cheek! They might as well have called it a “whites-only hairdressers”! It’s the same sort of discrimination, that’s what people just don’t seem to get.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Weeping my heart out in the centre of the clearing.
Merry (I think; god, they all look the same to me) picked up one of my single crystalline tears on his fingertip, examining it thoughtfully.
“What’s this?” he asked. “Some sort of tiny diamond?”
Sweet, Merryorpippin. Sweet, but totally stupid. You can’t call me unobservant for making a perfectly understandable faux pas in the hobbit-identification business, then not tell the difference between a diamond and a single crystalline tear. All hobbits look the same, but any idiot knows that a single crystalline tear can be told apart from a diamond by the simple procedure of adding it to a titration of sulphuric acid and sodium hydroxide. It’s not my fault if you didn’t bring the appropriate materials with you.
“It’s probably a bit of glass,” Pippinormerry told him.
“Well, there’s an awful lot of glass in her eye, then,” Merryorpippin retorted.
Unable to take any more, I stopped the flow of single crystalline tears and glared at them. “It’s not a bit of glass or diamond!” I shouted, quite reasonably, given the circumstances. “It’s a single crystalline tear! Don’t you know anything!”
The hobbits looked as though they would have replied, but some elvish bastard picked that moment to distract them by sticking arrows inches away from their faces. I mean, sure, it’s partly their fault for having such lousy attention spans, but come on! What do elves have against me explaining things properly? First Leggie-poo, now this. I mean, what’s a girl to do?
A smug-looking face appeared between the branches; from the pointy ears and the fact that he talked Elvish to start with, I managed to divine that he was, in fact…
You won’t believe this…
An elf!
And he didn’t half look pleased with himself. Then he said what might just be the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.
“The girl cries so piercingly, we could have shot you through ten layers of sound-muffling insulation,” he said smoothly, and took a step towards us. It was, I think, around that point that his feet caught on the single crystalline tears scattered an inch thick all around me, and he skidded gracefully to a stop against a tree. Headfirst.
Well, it serves him right. Stupid Haldir couldn’t even say his line properly.