At the Sign of the Drunken Elleth
Tale the First - Of Hobbits and First Age Elves

Disclaimer: The two of us own nothing except our abiding love for each other. The rest belongs to Tolkien’s Estate. We expect it will be years before they find us! The idea that we make any profit is laughable. We do this merely for our own entertainment. *Maeglin and the Dottir dance off into the sunset, grinning like the lunatic elves that they are!* 

Warning to the Canon Police: While we each have read and loved Tolkien’s works for over thirty years, this series will be AU. We respectfully ask that you not skitter forth from Shelob’s Lair and chastise your obedient elves for departures. Believe us, we know when we depart. It is too much fun to resist, however, and we are evil. We cannot and will not resist temptation!

Authors’ Notes: We wrote this together and will go down in flames still holding hands and laughing. The tales were inspired by a name for a tavern invented by Orophin’s Dottir in a review of Lindorien’s very fine parody of Hamlet called Alas! Poor Uruk! If you have a sense of humor, the authors humbly suggest that you read good Lindorien’s parodies of Tolkien at this site. We recommend, in particular, The Summary Version of LOTR.

We liked the name of the tavern so much that we have decided that we absolutely cannot let it die even if the public demands it. Therefore, we present the first of the tales spun at that venerable establishment.

Maeglin the Traitor and Orophin’s Dottir thank you for your kind attention. If you see the representatives of the Tolkien Estate, please deny that you know us.

Orophin’s Dottir and Maeglin the Traitor

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Chapter 1 - The Coming of the Elves to the Shire

Curufin all but slammed the bottles of wine onto the table. They had ridden all day in the cold and the storm, and it seemed to him to be for naught. They were back at the tavern with nothing to show for a miserable day. Curufin was in a foul temper, and Maeglin’s nonchalence at their lack of success did nothing to improve his humor. Since Eöl died, Maeglin had changed. Not for the better.

Curufin was not often beset by introspection, but suddenly he wondered why it was Eöl’s death that had changed his so-called friend. Aredhel’s passing had left barely a ripple in Maeglin’s life. The name of the one who had given her life to save him never once passed his lips or seemed to cause sorrow. Only Eöl’s name could do that for Maeglin. The one who had killed his mother. The one whose curse had broken the soul of his son and doomed him. Maeglin mourned for his father in some sick and twisted way that Curufin did not even try to understand.

Curufin was born almost as brutal as Maeglin had become. There were no soft memories of being taught by his father to warm his past. The friendship of the two elves seemed to have little left now but this brutality and a grim loyalty to one another. It was enough for Curufin. Their age had long passed, and they were mired here together on Arda, the small company of the last of the First Age elves. Curufin would have chosen them better, perhaps, but he had not been consulted.

"So, where are they, Maeglin? You were so sure they would be here tonight. Not a hobbit do I see. Only the same mangy crew of humans and dwarves as every night. And, my brothers doing what they do best these days, drinking too much and leering at barmaids to satisfy their humor. What a dive this place is."

Curufin looked around the dimly lit room with its furnishings that had seen far better days. Maisie, the blowsy owner, leaned against the bar as she talked to Maglor, no doubt to give him a better view of her breasts beneath the low-cut dress. Curufin laughed within himself at her wasted efforts.

Still and surprisingly, the elves all liked Maisie. She was no better than she should be, and they had learned quickly to count their change when it left her fingers. Her unscrupulous nature matched their own these days. Yes, she was like them was Maisie. She lived by her own code and kept to its boundaries. Like them. Some things there were that still bound the elves, there were some places even they would not go, things that would not be done. A small dim flicker of Aman’s light still held them in thrall. Even Maeglin.

Maisie’s The Drunken Elleth had become their haven somehow. Every night. The wine was barely acceptable and the food even worse. It had one virtue only. Here, they were left in peace. After the first night, the mortals had learned quickly that elves were not pretty woodland sprites. And, they were not all friendly and of good will.

Curufin remembered with grim satisfaction the one who had mocked the maimed arm of his brother that night. Maedhros had suddenly shown him what a one-handed elf could do with a knife. Only Maglor’s quick restraint of his brother’s rage had kept the man alive. The man was here tonight again. Curufin had noted him sitting at the table farthest from the elves. The scar on his throat was still red and ugly. It fascinated Curufin, who had never before seen such a mark that did not fade as theirs did from their bodies.

The clientele was what really drew Maeglin, or so Curufin thought. Maeglin seemed to have developed a fascination with mortals, and his slender fingers mixed often now in their affairs. Had he been prone to pity, Curufin would have pitied the mortals in whom Maeglin took an interest.

"They will be here, Curufin. I sent Fingon to watch the road. He will bring them here."

Curufin poured wine and was glad that it was Fingon out on that cold, desolate road and not himself. Hobbits. Less than a month ago, none of them had known or cared that they even existed. Curufin and his brothers still did not care. Maeglin did.

"And will the great Maeglin deign to tell me just why we seek out hobbits? What can they have that would interest such as we?"

Maeglin raised his glass and looked into the red depths of the wine. Lost in its color and his thoughts, for a moment, he was silent. Then, he raised his glass to Curufin in salute. His cold eyes glittered, and his voice was soft with menace.

"They have found the Ent-Wives."

Disclaimer and Warning to the Canon Police: Same as for Chapter 1.  We are still crazy!

Authors’ Notes:

Findekáno is Fingon’s name in Quenya.

Nelyo is a diminutive of Nelyafinwë, Maedhros’ name in Quenya.

Lómion (Quenya: "Son of Twilight") is the secret name that Maeglin’s mother Aredhel bestows on him as she fills the child with the poison of what he should be as one of the Noldor and not what he is as the son of Eöl, the smith of Nan Elmoth

In Appreciation

Thank you to our darling Celeb for her cheerful, patient and loving beta of this nonsense. She helps keep our Elves true to form and our Hobbits from sounding like Yanks! We love you, Sweets!

Maeglin the Traitor and Orophin’s Dottir

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  Chapter 2 - A Short Cut to Trouble

The storm had increased in its power threefold since he had begun his vigil. Fingon paid it no heed except to pull his cloak a little closer about him as he sheltered beneath roadside trees. Hooded thus, he knew he would be difficult to see on even a fair night lit by Isil’s full brightness.

This night he was invisible, awaiting creatures whose existence was a mystery to him, save as idle gossip overheard and of no interest. It mattered not. Over too many years, one face merged into the next, an endless procession of friend and foe. Fingon was not even sure yet that these were enemies. They interested Maeglin.

He thought of his sister’s child as he silently waited. She had died to save her son and yet Fingon knew his nephew had long forgotten what love might feel like. Had Maeglin ever known how to love her, even as a child?

The child Maeglin, who once eagerly sought Eöl’s arms, Aredhel filled with poison and pride. Noldor. Far beyond the place of his father. Lómion she named him in secret. Made for the world beyond the smith of Nan Elmoth she told him. Noldor. Beyond the skill Eöl could teach the child he had named. Beyond his love. Lómion, the doomed.

Fingon pitied his lost sister, but he did not hold her blameless. He remembered too well Eöl’s proud face in the few moments before he had been hurled to his death. Unbound and unafraid, the Dark Elf had stood there and faced them all.

Eöl had chosen, and his choice had made him free of them. Fingon’s heart remembered those clear eyes of the condemned regarding Maeglin for one brief moment in the sadness of a terrible loss. Then had Eöl cursed his son and met death on his own terms. No, Fingon thought, Aredhel was not blameless in Maeglin’s doom.

His thoughts came back to focus and left the deadness of their past. He lifted his head and listened. Borne on the wind of the storm, his sharp ears could hear voices. Strange and unnatural, they grated on his hearing. These were not elves or men who approached. Fingon drew himself deeper into the shadows and rain and waited. He could smell fear in the air.

*****

"Cousin Sam, are we there yet? It’s raining you know, and I’m getting wet. Besides, my feet are tired, and we’ve been walking for hours, and we still haven’t seen this tavern you heard about, and it’s been at least an hour before we ate anything, and anyway I bet there are no elves there, and we’ll have gone all this way for nothing and did I mention that it’s really raining and. . ."

"HAL! Shut up. Mr. Frodo and I went all the way to Mordor and complained less than you a few miles from Overhill." Sam’s legendary patience and good humor were hanging by the merest of threads. He glared at Merry’s back trudging ahead of them, and rehearsed the fine speech he would deliver to that stalwart hobbit when at last he had an ale before him at this new tavern. It had been Merry’s idea to bring Halfast.

In fact, this whole expedition had been Merry’s idea now that Sam thought of it. Trust a Brandybuck! No sooner had Pippin run excitedly in with news of discovering the hiding place of what he thought must be the Ent Wives, than you would have assumed Merry had suddenly taken command of the Rohirrim.

*****

Théoden Brandybuck, if you please! Mentally, Sam had resolved that he would not and could not call him Meriadoc King. That had never made sense to him when they had attended Théoden’s funeral. Perhaps a quirk of Rohirric linguistics? He’d always meant to ask Bilbo before he sailed.

A lot of things made little sense to Sam. They still seemed to happen. As he trudged through the rain, Sam mulled over the last few days. He was very good at mulling. Got a lot of practice after Mordor.

At any rate, Merry had begun immediately to dash about Brandy Hall demanding an elf be brought to him. They needed an elf, he declared! Only an elf would be able to speak with the Wives and determine their grievances!

And, Sam had thought then, only an elf had the lifespan and leisure to listen to an answer in Entish. He had remembered Pippin’s description of the Ent Moot and marveled that Isengard was not still producing orcs and uruk-hai. The Huorns must have been the deciding edge on action that day, thought Sam, as he observed the growing excitement around him.

The servants leaped into action and took up the call of the necessity of an elf at the Hall. Coupled with Pippin’s continued shrieking, it had been quite exciting. Sam had sat and quietly enjoyed it for more than a few moments. Almost as exciting as an oliphaunt and not nearly as dangerous. Or, so he had thought at the time.

When the excitement had begun to be worn down by the return of hunger, Sam took his opportunity and put in mildly for the record that there really did not seem to be an elf in the Shire just at the moment. Gildor Inglorion had sailed with Mr. Frodo, after all, and Legolas, inconveniently, seemed to be in Ithilien at the moment.

Now, this was truly a problem. They discussed it over lunch. They discussed it over supper. By second breakfast the next day, no solution was yet in sight. Even Merry was starting to look perplexed. He was so distracted he barely ate his second plate of food. It was disheartening not to have an elf around when one needed one most. Pippin even suggested Galdor of the Havens before Merry threw a biscuit at him. Galdor of the Havens! Why not old Círdan himself? Besides, Merry was pretty sure Galdor had sailed by now.

Merry stared glumly into his tea, not even noticing that the biscuit he had been dipping was now floating in his cup like a drowned orc. He contemplated asking Thranduil. Then, he contemplated himself as a dead hobbit. He crossed Thranduil off his mental list. There must be an elf or two somewhere near the Shire! His reputation as a leader of hobbits would soon be on the line if he did not find one quickly.

Just as the hobbits began to despair entirely, the door to the kitchen burst open. It was the fourth son of the third daughter of Pippin’s eighth cousin twice removed, and the child brought news! He cried out in his sweet childish voice that a new tavern had opened in the North of the Shire and the rumor was strong that elves had been seen there of an evening! He had been sent to tell Pippin because, by now, the whole Shire was being scoured by the devoted Hall servants in search of an elf.

*****

As he trudged along the rain-soaked road and remembered, it suddenly occurred to Sam that Master Elrond had made less of a fuss sending them to Mordor than Merry headed for the North of the Shire. But then, he was an elf. Or, at least half an elf. Sam was not sure what that would do to his planning abilities. . .make them better or worse? He would mull this over at a later date.

Morosely, he pulled his collar tighter around his throat. If only this dreadful rain would cease! Longing for that, he almost walked straight over Pippin. The small company of hobbits had stopped abruptly. They were at a crossroads. All at once, Sam felt an almost complete and awful certainty that Merry had no idea which road to take.

"Ah, yes. The crossroads I expected. Pippin, give me the map." Merry held his hand out to his cousin expectantly.

"What map? You never gave me a map! Was I supposed to bring a map?" Pippin’s voice was becoming increasingly shrill, a sure sign of excitement. Sam watched as Merry turned to glare at the younger hobbit, which immediately sent the Took voice even higher as the two began to argue in earnest.

Sam looked up at the sky. At least, it seemed that the rain was finally going to stop. He could be thankful for that. He wondered if they would ever find this new tavern.

The returning light of the moon that Sam had just welcomed suddenly darkened once more. A shadow deeper than the ones surrounding the trees stirred, and the smallest shard of ice pierced Sam’s heart with a terror he thought he had left in Mordor.

"Perhaps I might be of assistance? It is a lonely and fierce night. Companions on the road would be more than welcome if you are heading for The Drunken Elleth." The voice was oddly silken, and it pronounced the common tongue as if it were seldom used, with the trace of an accent of a land that Sam did not know.

The hobbits looked at the stranger in amazement at his appearance from nowhere. He was tall and slender and stood with a pride that was visible in the alignment of his body. The hood of his cloak had fallen back and, in the newly returned light of the moon, they could see the shining dark hair carefully braided with gold and. . .pointed ears.

"You’re an elf!" Merry’s voice was so relieved that, at other times, Sam would have laughed. Somehow, with this tall stranger before him, the laughter died in his throat.

"As you say, an elf. My name is Fingon, and I travel to meet my companions at The Drunken Elleth." The elf inclined his head slightly to the party of hobbits with his hand on his heart, a courtly gesture that reminded Sam in some way of Lord Celeborn. "Come, follow me, and you will finish at least this part of your journey in safety."

*****

The last of the journey passed swiftly as the silent elf led them at a pace that was uncomfortably rapid for short hobbit legs. He did not look back, however, and none of them dared call out to him to slow. Even Halfast had grown silent, all his energy concentrated on keeping pace with the long strides of Fingon.

Just as they felt they must rest or die, the hobbits saw a building loom in the near distance. The welcome glow of lanterns could be seen through windows, and there were horses tethered in the yard before its stable. To the hobbits, the sight of the tavern held the promise of cheerful warmth, hearty food and good ale, and they quickened their flagging pace. They had never known The Drunken Elleth.

Fingon paused on the doorstep and looked down at his companions. That such existed puzzled him still. If they held a place in Ilúvatar’s music, he could not see it. Perhaps some forgotten melody, solid and dependable, utterly lacking in grace? Idly, he wondered what their fate would be as he pushed open the door.

The hobbits crowded in after him and stopped dead. Eagerness quickly faded as they entered a room filled with men with no cheer and no hope in their faces. Hard men and frightening. Instinctively, the hobbits moved closer together and to the elf.

The room was crowded as any tavern on a night this unforgiving. The warmth of the roaring fire, though, was its only cheer. The hobbits heard no laughter of those rewarding themselves after a day’s honest work. Instead, they heard whispers, felt narrow glances observe them and then retreat back into concealment. For a moment as they entered, the sound of voices all but ended. Then, Fingon slowly turned his head as if memorizing each silent mortal’s face. Quickly, voices resumed, retreating back into conversations with a fervor born of fear rather than an increased interest in their subject. The elf Fingon’s eyes gleamed coldly, and he motioned to the hobbits to follow him.

They pressed closely behind him as he glided through the crowd of men which parted wordlessly before him. Sam saw his goal at once. At a far corner table, sat two more elves. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise as Fingon’s hands warmly gripped the shoulders of the one nearest to him. Sam had never before seen an elf with red hair.

"Findekáno, it is good that you are here at last. This one thought we should start to seek you." Maedhros gestured at the dark-haired elf across the table, who smiled for one moment only as he poured wine into a cup and slid it towards Fingon.

"Ai, but you knew better I am sure?" Suddenly weary, Fingon sat beside Maedhros and drained the cup of wine, nodding his thanks to Maglor. He gestured carelessly towards the frightened hobbits. "Nelyo, tell Maeglin they are here."