Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

What really happened in the Cracks of Doom? Elrond's half-mortal brain may be faulty… Movie-verse!

"…He has chosen exile," Elrond concluded and there followed a cavernous silence broken by Gandalf chomping his pipe and Elrond slurping his wine.

"It is curious, Master Elrond," said Gandalf at last. "Your story, of yourself and Isildur in the Cracks of Doom."

"Well," Gandalf continued. "It does not agree with the scroll of Isildur in the library of Minas Tirith."

"I do not say that you lie. But it is, namely, that Isildur's tale is different."

If lightning could shoot from elven brows… But Gandalf heeded not the signs and told:

"Should I cast it into the fire?" said the man, a belch of heat and ash ripping at his cloak. He peaked over the precipice. "You know, destroy it?"

He held the ring aloft, up to his nose. The ring was shiny indeed, but still, he had shinier things.

Elrond leaned on the doorframe and panted. "No," he said and spun on his heels. "Who knows what might happen! Coming, Isildur?"

"It should have ended that day," said Gandalf, still quoting Isildur, "but evil was allowed to endure. I will carry the Ring to Elrond in Imladris and seek his advice once more."

"He was mortal," said Elrond. "Númenórean or not, their memories suffer fits and lapses."

The wizard and the Peredhil started at a sneeze. Someone else was in the room. They exchanged raised brows and peaked around the shelves, to find the intruder pouring himself a glass of Elrond's wine.

"That's extraordinary," said Galdor of the Havens. "Both accounts neglect Lord Círdan's presence. And neither matches the one he gave me."

Receiving no immediate objection from Gandalf or Elrond, Galdor drained his glass and told:

"Just cast it into the fire!" said the bearded elf, a belch of heat and ash ripping at his cloak.

Isildur stood in the doorframe and to his nose held the ring aloft, admiring its shininess. His father had had a shiny sword… Gil-galad a shiny spear… they all were limpid tar to this Band of Living Luster.

"It should have ended that day." Galdor sighed and pried into a second bottle. "But evil was allowed to endure."

"Cast it into the fire!" said Elrond, a belch of heat and ash ripping at his cloak."Destroy it!"

From behind a rock a bearded elf popped. He flipped two thumbs up and slid back out of sight.

"It should have ended that day," said Elrond. "But evil." He locked the wine in a cabinet. "Was allowed to endure." He flicked the key out the window.

On the balcony below, the key flew unnoticed over the heads of Bilbo and Frodo, tied together in a deep discussion about the S-Bs' silver eating utensils. The Ring, however, was listening not to the hobbits, but rather to the Wise above. He clicked his non-existent tongue.

2 – Matters of Nonsense

Legolas attempts to imitate one of the stranger habits of his mortal companions…

Six days ago they had left Imladris under the cover of night, only Varda's stars to light their path. From this itinerary Gandalf never deviated: march by night, rain or clear, and try to rest by day under the blazing winter sun. At the break of the seventh dawn they found a clump of stumpy pines to serve as camp, which, to their great delight, was coated in soft, dry needles.

The three watches fell to Frodo, Pippin, and Boromir. They took a quick meal of bread, cheese, and dried berries. Then Frodo propped himself beside a fallen bough and the others spread their blankets and threw themselves on the ground. All save Legolas. The elf stood yet, watching his companions drift into sleep, for the curiosity that had smoldered in his mind for the last week finally burst into flames.

One by one, their eyes closed and their breathing slowed. This manner of rest – to lie down, shut off the senses, to be, to all appearances save a rise and fall of the chest, dead –was fascinating, and had kept him absorbed during the long night marches. It was a habit he had associated most his life to beings of lesser awareness. Birds, sheep, cats, horses. Not people, certainly not men, dwarves, hobbits, wizards… Yet they did. Why not elves…?

Why not?

He could not answer.

Well, why not try? How difficult could it be to sleep?

He pressed his back to a tree. The bark was tattered and rough. He scooted down until only his head rested against the base.

He folded his hands on his chest. He looked up at the knotted branches and their rippling green needles. Midday passed. The day was very clear and blue, and the cool air was crisp with the smell of pine. Gandalf snorted. Frodo woke Pippin and retired to his bedroll. Pippin, hunched on a rock, nodded and slapped his cheek. No other sound disturbed the camp.

This was not enough, apparently. He tried to imitate their shallow breathing. Five minutes passed, ten minutes… He felt as alert as ever. What was wrong? Oh yes, he should close his eyes. For an hour he kept his eyes shut in tandem with his slow breathing. His mind yearned to transport him to the great forests in the east, a better place for thinking, but he cast aside the urge and continued to watch the daylight through his closed lids.

He frowned. How do you know when you've fallen asleep?

When the sun reached a quarter of its western descent, Pippin roared a yawn and changed watch with Boromir. Plop! Pippin's head landed on his bedroll and a snore immediately erupted from his blankets.

How do they manage it so quickly?

There had to be a technique. Position must be key. He turned on his side as he had seen Aragorn do. A root stuck into his ribs. He turned to the other side. After ten minutes, the pressure on his side became unbearable. Again to his back he rolled.

The sun had now situated itself between two branches in the tree and promptly began roasting his cheek. He returned to his side.

He had his own version of sleep, of course. But his dreams were vivid and controlled, taking him to places of meditation, not at all like the misty ramblings that the others had described to him, and he did not need be lying down or even stationary to dream his dreams. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and thought of Nonsense for a time, he would be Asleep…

He opened his eyes.

What is Nonsense, anyway? Dwarves? Perhaps. Their worship of crafts and gadgets, ever occupied with their secretive bargainings and dealings. Sly and elusive, they hid themselves under the earth and their faces behind their beards…

Evening approached, blanketing the sky in purple and deep blue. Sam was first to yawn and stretch. He hopped to his feet and rummaged in his sack for kindling, a pan, and rashers of bacon. Aragorn next rose and rolled up his blankets. Gandalf paced to warm his limbs and Gimli sat by and muttered in Khazad something with the formality of a prayer. Frodo and the two young hobbits leaped to wakefulness at the first crackle of the rashers hitting the hot pan.

They ate, but to Legolas the bacon became discarnate and the world drowned in a silver haze and the next moment he was perched on his favorite beech tree over the rushing River Running. It was a warm spring day, smelling green and fresh, and a cool breeze emanated from the river below. The birds sang songs of Nonsense…

"Berúthiel's cats!" said Boromir. The big man slapped him on the back and the peaceful forest cracked. Legolas was sitting again on a cold stone under the glare of the Misty Mountains. "You look as tired as though you've run a loop around a mountain. During my watch I observed you tossing and had supposed you were having an Elven form of nightmare. But you'll forgive me, I hope, for not waking you, for I thought it somewhat amusing. As compensation, I will take your watch tomorrow."

Legolas shook his head. "An exchange is not needed! I was not grievously troubled, and I do not need the sleep as you." He paused. "How do you do it?"

"What?" said Boromir.

"Sleep. How do you sleep?"

"On my back, I suppose…"

"Sorry, I mean to say, how do you go about sleeping? How do you know when to sleep and how do you fall into it?" Boromir's eyes clouded over as Legolas hunted the words. "Suppose – suppose you were to teach this to a child, how might you describe it?"

"Ah," explained Boromir. "Ahhh."

"That is easy!" cried Pippin with a cheek full of fried tomato. "You lie down, close your eyes, and think of Nonsense."

"You only think of Nonsense, Pip," said Merry.

Legolas smiled. "Thank you!"

To himself he said, "So my guess was near the mark."

And he was sitting again on his favorite beech tree, sniffing the clear breeze and listening to the chatter of the river below…

3 – Mordor, First Class

Packing peanuts and postal orcs. A different take on the Fellowship’s quest… Movie-verse!

“You'll have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!” said the pernicious halfling, shoving aside his, Elrond Eärendilion’s, perfectly pressed robes like so many curtains.

The halfling’s cousin followed and they joined themselves to the seven heroic figures. What a bothersome bundle of decision-making. Why couldn’t things be easy? Valar and Vaseline!

“Nine companions…” muttered he…“Nine sacks…” And the smile of Elrond Eärendilion curled from tapered ear to tapered ear.

---

The Gorgoroth post office was in an uproar. Ten hefty packages had arrived, postmarked and fully addressed. In a land where literacy was generally frowned upon with torture, they didn’t have to deal with more than three parcels a day, and most of these they simply fed to the carrier trolls anyway because of the address’ illegibleness. Now ten neatly addressed packages? This was too far. The clerk orcs bickered over who would sort the packages, leaving one dead and four with their eyes stamped shut.

Sorting was foregone. The clerk orcs began a new squabble over stamp prices and soon half, including the Chief, were dead. The largest remaining clerk claimed the title of Chief of Postage. Then the carrier trolls went on strike. This left the delivery job to the orc of littlest brawn. Cagny was his name.

He stepped gingerly through the main office’s troll door and dragged his feet-claws toward the Chief’s desk. “Ther big,” he pointed out. The gate-like troll door slammed behind him.

“Don’ care,” said the new Chief of Postage.

The ten packages on the desk reached to the sky. Cagny lifted an elf-shaped one, found its weight too much, and released it so that it fell to the floor with a shatter.

“All firs’ class to the Great Mountain’s crack. Get movin’.” The Chief demonstrated with a scimitar still clung by his predecessor’s arm.

Cagny was faced with the problem of carrying ten packages larger than himself. After sulking for a day, he thought up the idea to tie them together and drag them along behind. It wasn’t easy, bumping and scraping over the jagged and pitted plains of the Gorgoroth. He wept when he came to the Mountain, cursed the trolls whose job this really was, and proceeded step by torturous step. Somehow the packages felt heavier and heavier the further he ascended.

Finally, at last! The Crack. He pulled his burdens through the door and up to the sweltering chasm. He untied the smallest from the train. Cagny was not a clerk slave for a mere nothing; he could, in fact, decipher most letters. And the letters on this parcel said quite plainly, “Drop into Crack.”

Cagny lifted it and held it over the fire. A rustling made him look behind and the little orc beheld a sight that made his heart stop. The packages started unpacking themselves, tearing paper, spitting out packing peanuts. Cagny squeaked, frozen with the small package held over his face, as if for protection.

A hairball and eight odd he-Men at last emerged from the wrappings: one sloppy, another old, one an evil Gondor maggot, one glittering dreadfully, and four shortlings.

“Thank you,” said a funny shortling with a cleft chin. He took the package from Cagny’s lifeless claws and chucked it into the fire. Whoops and hugs all around.

“Um. You checked It was still in there, yes?” the Hairball said to Cleft with an askance look.

“No.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” said the old man.

They listened. There was a definite ker-plunk of a tower’s foundation cracking. The remaining shortlings pulled bottles from their boxes.

Cagny interrupted, “Bur what’s…”

“You’re a hero, you know,” said the old man to Cleft, who was not arguing.

“Bur…” said Cagny.

“Children will sing songs about you. Minstrels will vie to write the longest ballad,” continued the old man, now patting Cleft’s shoulder.

“Bur…”

The sloppy man-creature noticed him. “How would you like to be Postmaster General of Mordor?”

Cagny would.

Later, back west, Elrond Eärendilion read a letter postmarked in Gorgoroth and nodded in satisfaction.

LotR Scraps by Kitt Otter