Aug 24 - Sweet Dreams (Aren't Made of This)
Title: Sweet Dreams (Aren't Made of This)
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy's not sure if knowing what she was getting into this time actually helped.
Word Count: 2410
Note: This one's a little messy, but nobody dies or is permanently maimed "on screen".
The air smelled like blood and death underlaid with the revolting odor of sulfur that no west wind had ever been able to dissipate since the Sudden Flame, but Anariel had expected that.
She’d been here before, after all.
At least her stupid forefather’s awful book hadn’t been able to conjure up the actual smells that time. He’d settled for putting it into words. But the Morgoth Magical Mystery Tour had it all.
She had gotten to see a few nice things tonight. Watching Glaurung get spanked the first time he ventured forth had been pretty satisfying, even if it would have been more satisfying had she gotten to see the whole afterparty.
She was getting better at this, though - she could recognize now when Morgoth’s attention withdrew because someone else was opposing him. Someone like her grandmother Melian, for example, which was why Morgoth hadn’t stuck around for the ‘yay, we lived!’ celebration.
Unfortunately, she’d also gotten to see the full measure of Uncle Finno’s despair after his father rode off to demand Morgoth come out and fight. Hope was grand, but the Noldor had already been promised they couldn’t beat a Vala. Uncle Finno had known full well his father wasn’t coming back even before the news filtered back about how the fight had gone.
She hadn’t realized the Eagles taking the body to Gondolin rather than Mithrim had been salt in the wound, though.
Unlike all the others, she’d known the entire time in painful detail how this one would end. She wasn’t sure if it was any better to have already seen it thanks to someone who had loved Findekano. Not knowing that this time she’d be seeing it thanks to someone who had absolutely reveled in his death. Because she knew that too - the High King of the Noldor had been a target from the moment the battle began.
There might be more fun and games further east - she’d already seen some of that, seeing as Pelendur had been there - but Finno had been the target, not Maedhros. At least, physically. Morgoth might not understand to the pain yet at this point, but Sauron definitely did…
Annoyingly, her least favorite maia hadn’t showed his face at all. She’d have taken a swing if he was, just for old time’s sake. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but it might make her feel better.
She’d been working out her feelings on orcs instead. And wolves. The odd troll. And the occasional dragon. (It had been right there. She felt better for about ten seconds, then she remembered it wasn’t like Fingon had been killed by a dragon.)
She wondered idly what Morgoth would to do if she went to town on Gothmog when he showed up, which should be any time now. She was pretty sure that was his footsteps she could feel faintly through the soles of her feet.
There were enough other balrogs still kicking at this point that it might even be classed as a fair fight… She grabbed one balrog’s whip, ignoring the slight sting in her palm where it crossed the scar from the first time she’d pulled that trick.
That was when she heard the scream.
It couldn’t be…
Another all too familiar scream.
Shit.
How had her little sister ended up here?
“Tinu?” she yelled, scanning everything around her. “Dawnie, where are you?”
The scream repeated, higher and more panicked this time, and she redoubled her efforts even as she tried to work out what exactly was off about the voice.
It wasn’t quite right…
Pain ripped through her from multiple points along her back. Claws? No, metal. What?
She tried to turn but found she couldn’t as something hard and unyielding slammed into her face.
She blinked, trying to clear her eyesight.
“No, don’t get up.”
She’s heard that before, and tried to struggle upright anyway, but someone was holding her down.
This time when she blinked, the world changed - and she promptly screwed here eyes shut against the suddenly brighter light. The battle had stirred up huge clouds of ash and dust, to the point that they’d been fighting in something like permanent twilight.
When she opened her eyes more cautiously, it took her a second for what she was seeing to make sense. The cold hard surface her face was pressed up against was the tile floor of the Royal Armory.
How had she ended up on the floor?
“Little sister, do you know where you are?” Elrohir asked worriedly.
Why was he holding her down?
“Armory,” she ground out, trying to shift to something more like a comfortable position.
“Please stay still, little one?”
She stopped, more because of the stress in his voice than the words.
“Is Tinu ok?” she asked urgently.
“Tinu is fine, aside from being somewhat worried about you,” he replied. “That was Lissë you heard. She’s not used to seeing someone asleep grab a dagger by the blade.”
“I did what?” Anariel demanded. “I did…”
She trailed off, as the nerves in her hand informed her she might have, actually.
“Ok, I know where I am and when I am, can I get up now?”
“No,” Elrohir said tightly. “I would prefer Ada take a look at the damage to your back first.”
She’d have asked, but that was about when the shock started to wear off.
“Oww,” she moaned. “Since you can see it and I can’t?”
“You knocked a whole rack down onto yourself when you startled,” Elrohir replied grimly. “Fortunately most of them didn’t hit you blade first, but a few did, and one is still in place.”
“Well, take it out,” she snapped. “If it’s left too long, Slayer healing will have the tissue growing back around it, which means it will hurt even worse when you finally move it!”
“Were you this pleasant after the dragon incident?” her brother wanted to know.
Anariel tried to get up again and was held down by her most infuriating brother.
“That was totally different,” she informed him crankily. “The dragon threw me into a pile of weapons and followed up with claws! And I was fine!”
“Thranduil says otherwise,” he pointed out mildly.
“That part was later,” Anariel said testily. “Also, there was no disemboweling this time thank you very much!”
“Ada is on his way, a few minutes’ patience on your part is not too much to ask,” Elrohir said.
Particularly not when I imagine I’ll be helping you cover for whatever dream prompted this, he added.
She’d have worried about him being overheard had his hand not still been on the back of her neck to make sure she didn’t try to move again. Melian herself could be standing right next to them and not hear unless they wanted her to - meaning Grandfather Ara wouldn’t.
“It was the Nirnaeth,” she admitted, losing the battle not to let her voice break.
Ro, it was almost over, she added piteously. I’ll have to see it all over again.
Even just saying it hurt enough that she couldn’t hold back the tears.
I am sorry, little sister. We hadn’t realized you met Uncle Finno on the way in, or one of us would have come to find you.
He paused.
“Truly, though, you have terrible instincts about what constitutes a good place for a nap,” he continued out loud. “Also, Lissë was as alarmed by how you sleep as where you chose to do it.”
She would have asked why he switched, except she could hear the footsteps.
“I don’t want a huge audience,” she told her brother, trying very hard not to sound like she was begging. But she didn’t want to be the freak show.
“Ahead of you there,” Elrohir sighed. “That is why it is only me. Elladan took Lissë to find her father-”
- also more urgently to get her out of earshot should she scream her head off again, as it was only making you thrash around worse each time -
“- and to make sure we didn’t end up with grandmothers and aunts not used to bloodshed coming to help.”
“It’s not-”
“It is that bad, you just happen to be facing away from the direction of the blood pool,” Elrohir informed her flatly.
“My sunshine, what have you done now?”
The deep dismay in her father’s tone was a far more accurate gauge of her injuries than her brother.
“She has sliced the hand fairly deeply, Ada,” Elrohir began, “and I think you should check the tendons. Then there is the obvious…”
“It’s not obvious, and could we please take the sharp poky metal thing out?” Anariel put in. “It’s beginning to really hurt!”
Shock had fully retreated, leaving pain the field.
“If you would please remain still,” Ada said, in that tightly controlled tone that meant it was bad and he was having to work hard to keep the healer in front of the father.
She did her best to relax, but face down on the floor was not her favorite place to be even when everything didn’t hurt.
Her father gently examined her hand, and she felt the few notes he hummed pull something into place in her palm that hadn’t been before.
“One tendon was severed, the rest can be left to Slayer healing, he murmured. “Elrohir, you can let go.”
The pressure of her brother’s hand disappeared, and she tried not to scream in frustration as she waited for her father to assess whatever mess she’d made of her back.
We are getting ready to take it out, Elrohir assured her. Patience?
“Never my strong suit,” she muttered.
Elves tended to use osanwë rather than count three or anything like that, so it came as both a surprise and a relief when the metal that had been occupying space on the right side of her lower back was pulled out swiftly and cleanly. She recognized it was her father, not her brother, putting pressure on the wound.
At least for the first few moments, until the familiar stab-discomfort-stab feeling of being stitched took over.
“I can leave you to heal from most of it yourself, but there are a few spots I do not trust the Slayer with,” her father murmured apologetically. “If you keep still just a few moments longer, it will be done.”
Elrond had already been the best healer in Middle-earth before she had given him practice with all sorts of unusual and unexpected wounds. (A few of which, he had informed her solemnly, were not usually survivable. Though he only ever mentioned that well after the fact, almost like he was afraid she’d get ideas.)
“Not the worst you’ve ever done,” Ada continued. “But I think there will be a rule about not sleeping in the armory from now on.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she muttered. “And I was the only one in here when I fell asleep.”
“I know you didn’t, my sunshine,” Ada sighed. “But you can’t count on no one happening on you here, no matter how soothing you may find it to be surrounded by weapons. And I think you will agree this was not a pleasant way to be woken.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She didn’t mean just about Ada having to leave whatever he’d been doing to come patch her up. She knew perfectly well that while her father preferred not to leave her to the care of any other healer, he found all injuries to his children upsetting. She would have tried to get other people to fix her up had she not known that wouldn’t help anything.
But she also meant about being such a mess that weapons that were to others a disturbing holdover from a past they were happy was now behind them were to her a comfort. It was just as well there were no mental institutions here.
I do not think there is anything wrong with your head, Ada informed her gently. Or your fëa, which is how most elves would think of it. I do not know that California ideas of how to heal such wounds are applicable. Nor are you the only one who prefers to be well-armed after your experiences in Middle-earth. There would be no armory if our kin believed weapons would never been needful again.
A sharp intake of breath from the direction of the door startled her, but her father and Elrohir each got a hand on her in time to keep her from twisting around to see who it was.
“All is well in hand, Grandfather, Uncle,” Elrohir assured them.
“There,” Ada said quietly.
He lifted her upright before she could attempt to move, and only then could she see what a mess she’d made of the previously pristine room. (And her hand, but really that probably was easier to set to rights.)
At least you’re wearing darker colors, her father said resignedly.
Yes, judging by the size and shape of the puddle on the floor, anything in white would have been permanently wrecked. Not to mention horrified every relative who saw it.
“Do I need to tell you?” Ada asked.
She was startled to realize he didn’t particularly want the extra kin about either. He would have preferred to get her quietly back to her own room and resting before the parade of relatives who were anywhere from mildly freaked out to outright distraught started.
“No,” she sighed. Shouldn’t I clean up first though?
Leave that to others, Ada replied firmly.
“Go rest. And if I find you are not, I will send several of your grandmothers to see to it that you do.”
Anariel’s jaw dropped.
You wouldn’t!
Piggyback? Elrohir suggested. Everyone’s less likely to stop you that way…
Also her big brother wanted the reassurance that she was all right and not being pestered into giving more away than she intended.
“Yes please.”
She was halfway grateful for the escape. Grandfather Ara brushed a hand against her cheek on the way out, though she couldn’t say whether it was to comfort her or to be certain for himself that she would recover. Then he turned to Ada with a look that said explanations were expected.
She leaned her head against her brother’s back as he walked and tried to block the rest of the world out.
It wasn’t going to be easy getting back to sleep knowing exactly what to expect this time.
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy's not sure if knowing what she was getting into this time actually helped.
Word Count: 2410
Note: This one's a little messy, but nobody dies or is permanently maimed "on screen".
The air smelled like blood and death underlaid with the revolting odor of sulfur that no west wind had ever been able to dissipate since the Sudden Flame, but Anariel had expected that.
She’d been here before, after all.
At least her stupid forefather’s awful book hadn’t been able to conjure up the actual smells that time. He’d settled for putting it into words. But the Morgoth Magical Mystery Tour had it all.
She had gotten to see a few nice things tonight. Watching Glaurung get spanked the first time he ventured forth had been pretty satisfying, even if it would have been more satisfying had she gotten to see the whole afterparty.
She was getting better at this, though - she could recognize now when Morgoth’s attention withdrew because someone else was opposing him. Someone like her grandmother Melian, for example, which was why Morgoth hadn’t stuck around for the ‘yay, we lived!’ celebration.
Unfortunately, she’d also gotten to see the full measure of Uncle Finno’s despair after his father rode off to demand Morgoth come out and fight. Hope was grand, but the Noldor had already been promised they couldn’t beat a Vala. Uncle Finno had known full well his father wasn’t coming back even before the news filtered back about how the fight had gone.
She hadn’t realized the Eagles taking the body to Gondolin rather than Mithrim had been salt in the wound, though.
Unlike all the others, she’d known the entire time in painful detail how this one would end. She wasn’t sure if it was any better to have already seen it thanks to someone who had loved Findekano. Not knowing that this time she’d be seeing it thanks to someone who had absolutely reveled in his death. Because she knew that too - the High King of the Noldor had been a target from the moment the battle began.
There might be more fun and games further east - she’d already seen some of that, seeing as Pelendur had been there - but Finno had been the target, not Maedhros. At least, physically. Morgoth might not understand to the pain yet at this point, but Sauron definitely did…
Annoyingly, her least favorite maia hadn’t showed his face at all. She’d have taken a swing if he was, just for old time’s sake. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but it might make her feel better.
She’d been working out her feelings on orcs instead. And wolves. The odd troll. And the occasional dragon. (It had been right there. She felt better for about ten seconds, then she remembered it wasn’t like Fingon had been killed by a dragon.)
She wondered idly what Morgoth would to do if she went to town on Gothmog when he showed up, which should be any time now. She was pretty sure that was his footsteps she could feel faintly through the soles of her feet.
There were enough other balrogs still kicking at this point that it might even be classed as a fair fight… She grabbed one balrog’s whip, ignoring the slight sting in her palm where it crossed the scar from the first time she’d pulled that trick.
That was when she heard the scream.
It couldn’t be…
Another all too familiar scream.
Shit.
How had her little sister ended up here?
“Tinu?” she yelled, scanning everything around her. “Dawnie, where are you?”
The scream repeated, higher and more panicked this time, and she redoubled her efforts even as she tried to work out what exactly was off about the voice.
It wasn’t quite right…
Pain ripped through her from multiple points along her back. Claws? No, metal. What?
She tried to turn but found she couldn’t as something hard and unyielding slammed into her face.
She blinked, trying to clear her eyesight.
“No, don’t get up.”
She’s heard that before, and tried to struggle upright anyway, but someone was holding her down.
This time when she blinked, the world changed - and she promptly screwed here eyes shut against the suddenly brighter light. The battle had stirred up huge clouds of ash and dust, to the point that they’d been fighting in something like permanent twilight.
When she opened her eyes more cautiously, it took her a second for what she was seeing to make sense. The cold hard surface her face was pressed up against was the tile floor of the Royal Armory.
How had she ended up on the floor?
“Little sister, do you know where you are?” Elrohir asked worriedly.
Why was he holding her down?
“Armory,” she ground out, trying to shift to something more like a comfortable position.
“Please stay still, little one?”
She stopped, more because of the stress in his voice than the words.
“Is Tinu ok?” she asked urgently.
“Tinu is fine, aside from being somewhat worried about you,” he replied. “That was Lissë you heard. She’s not used to seeing someone asleep grab a dagger by the blade.”
“I did what?” Anariel demanded. “I did…”
She trailed off, as the nerves in her hand informed her she might have, actually.
“Ok, I know where I am and when I am, can I get up now?”
“No,” Elrohir said tightly. “I would prefer Ada take a look at the damage to your back first.”
She’d have asked, but that was about when the shock started to wear off.
“Oww,” she moaned. “Since you can see it and I can’t?”
“You knocked a whole rack down onto yourself when you startled,” Elrohir replied grimly. “Fortunately most of them didn’t hit you blade first, but a few did, and one is still in place.”
“Well, take it out,” she snapped. “If it’s left too long, Slayer healing will have the tissue growing back around it, which means it will hurt even worse when you finally move it!”
“Were you this pleasant after the dragon incident?” her brother wanted to know.
Anariel tried to get up again and was held down by her most infuriating brother.
“That was totally different,” she informed him crankily. “The dragon threw me into a pile of weapons and followed up with claws! And I was fine!”
“Thranduil says otherwise,” he pointed out mildly.
“That part was later,” Anariel said testily. “Also, there was no disemboweling this time thank you very much!”
“Ada is on his way, a few minutes’ patience on your part is not too much to ask,” Elrohir said.
Particularly not when I imagine I’ll be helping you cover for whatever dream prompted this, he added.
She’d have worried about him being overheard had his hand not still been on the back of her neck to make sure she didn’t try to move again. Melian herself could be standing right next to them and not hear unless they wanted her to - meaning Grandfather Ara wouldn’t.
“It was the Nirnaeth,” she admitted, losing the battle not to let her voice break.
Ro, it was almost over, she added piteously. I’ll have to see it all over again.
Even just saying it hurt enough that she couldn’t hold back the tears.
I am sorry, little sister. We hadn’t realized you met Uncle Finno on the way in, or one of us would have come to find you.
He paused.
“Truly, though, you have terrible instincts about what constitutes a good place for a nap,” he continued out loud. “Also, Lissë was as alarmed by how you sleep as where you chose to do it.”
She would have asked why he switched, except she could hear the footsteps.
“I don’t want a huge audience,” she told her brother, trying very hard not to sound like she was begging. But she didn’t want to be the freak show.
“Ahead of you there,” Elrohir sighed. “That is why it is only me. Elladan took Lissë to find her father-”
- also more urgently to get her out of earshot should she scream her head off again, as it was only making you thrash around worse each time -
“- and to make sure we didn’t end up with grandmothers and aunts not used to bloodshed coming to help.”
“It’s not-”
“It is that bad, you just happen to be facing away from the direction of the blood pool,” Elrohir informed her flatly.
“My sunshine, what have you done now?”
The deep dismay in her father’s tone was a far more accurate gauge of her injuries than her brother.
“She has sliced the hand fairly deeply, Ada,” Elrohir began, “and I think you should check the tendons. Then there is the obvious…”
“It’s not obvious, and could we please take the sharp poky metal thing out?” Anariel put in. “It’s beginning to really hurt!”
Shock had fully retreated, leaving pain the field.
“If you would please remain still,” Ada said, in that tightly controlled tone that meant it was bad and he was having to work hard to keep the healer in front of the father.
She did her best to relax, but face down on the floor was not her favorite place to be even when everything didn’t hurt.
Her father gently examined her hand, and she felt the few notes he hummed pull something into place in her palm that hadn’t been before.
“One tendon was severed, the rest can be left to Slayer healing, he murmured. “Elrohir, you can let go.”
The pressure of her brother’s hand disappeared, and she tried not to scream in frustration as she waited for her father to assess whatever mess she’d made of her back.
We are getting ready to take it out, Elrohir assured her. Patience?
“Never my strong suit,” she muttered.
Elves tended to use osanwë rather than count three or anything like that, so it came as both a surprise and a relief when the metal that had been occupying space on the right side of her lower back was pulled out swiftly and cleanly. She recognized it was her father, not her brother, putting pressure on the wound.
At least for the first few moments, until the familiar stab-discomfort-stab feeling of being stitched took over.
“I can leave you to heal from most of it yourself, but there are a few spots I do not trust the Slayer with,” her father murmured apologetically. “If you keep still just a few moments longer, it will be done.”
Elrond had already been the best healer in Middle-earth before she had given him practice with all sorts of unusual and unexpected wounds. (A few of which, he had informed her solemnly, were not usually survivable. Though he only ever mentioned that well after the fact, almost like he was afraid she’d get ideas.)
“Not the worst you’ve ever done,” Ada continued. “But I think there will be a rule about not sleeping in the armory from now on.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she muttered. “And I was the only one in here when I fell asleep.”
“I know you didn’t, my sunshine,” Ada sighed. “But you can’t count on no one happening on you here, no matter how soothing you may find it to be surrounded by weapons. And I think you will agree this was not a pleasant way to be woken.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She didn’t mean just about Ada having to leave whatever he’d been doing to come patch her up. She knew perfectly well that while her father preferred not to leave her to the care of any other healer, he found all injuries to his children upsetting. She would have tried to get other people to fix her up had she not known that wouldn’t help anything.
But she also meant about being such a mess that weapons that were to others a disturbing holdover from a past they were happy was now behind them were to her a comfort. It was just as well there were no mental institutions here.
I do not think there is anything wrong with your head, Ada informed her gently. Or your fëa, which is how most elves would think of it. I do not know that California ideas of how to heal such wounds are applicable. Nor are you the only one who prefers to be well-armed after your experiences in Middle-earth. There would be no armory if our kin believed weapons would never been needful again.
A sharp intake of breath from the direction of the door startled her, but her father and Elrohir each got a hand on her in time to keep her from twisting around to see who it was.
“All is well in hand, Grandfather, Uncle,” Elrohir assured them.
“There,” Ada said quietly.
He lifted her upright before she could attempt to move, and only then could she see what a mess she’d made of the previously pristine room. (And her hand, but really that probably was easier to set to rights.)
At least you’re wearing darker colors, her father said resignedly.
Yes, judging by the size and shape of the puddle on the floor, anything in white would have been permanently wrecked. Not to mention horrified every relative who saw it.
“Do I need to tell you?” Ada asked.
She was startled to realize he didn’t particularly want the extra kin about either. He would have preferred to get her quietly back to her own room and resting before the parade of relatives who were anywhere from mildly freaked out to outright distraught started.
“No,” she sighed. Shouldn’t I clean up first though?
Leave that to others, Ada replied firmly.
“Go rest. And if I find you are not, I will send several of your grandmothers to see to it that you do.”
Anariel’s jaw dropped.
You wouldn’t!
Piggyback? Elrohir suggested. Everyone’s less likely to stop you that way…
Also her big brother wanted the reassurance that she was all right and not being pestered into giving more away than she intended.
“Yes please.”
She was halfway grateful for the escape. Grandfather Ara brushed a hand against her cheek on the way out, though she couldn’t say whether it was to comfort her or to be certain for himself that she would recover. Then he turned to Ada with a look that said explanations were expected.
She leaned her head against her brother’s back as he walked and tried to block the rest of the world out.
It wasn’t going to be easy getting back to sleep knowing exactly what to expect this time.