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

_________________________

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."