BEWARE THE BORED VALA
"I am bored," Lórien stated, plucking the petals off a rose he held in his hand, murmuring "I am bored, I am not," over and over. He had been doing the same thing for two hours already, accompanying the action with sighs and yawns, and by now even Námo's patience was wearing thin.
"You are the master of dreams – somehow I find it very difficult to understand how you can be bored."
"Look who is talking! You get to see battles and drama. And me? Blushing maidens dreaming of silly Elves. Agreed, when Celeborn was still young and unmarried, it was different. There was a scandal every other night in Lothlórien, but now? Ever since he settled down, Lothlórien is about as exciting as one of Master Erestor's speeches. Boring. Bo-ring."
Námo rolled his eyes.
"Oh please now – it cannot be that bad. Do something useful. Go for a walk, Lórien. Look after your realm. Or give somebody a sweet dream. Just get out of my study and my braids, I have a lot of work to do."
Lórien pouted and got up, throwing the ruined rose aside.
"Fine. Good. I am not hurt at all that you, my dearest friend, are annoyed by my presence. I shall leave you to your important work, which is probably watching that boring peredhil bathing naked in the Bruinen. No problem, I shall leave. No need to show me to the door."
With that, he left the room, followed by Námo's dry chuckle, for the Vala of Death was not in the least impressed by his friend's melodramatic exit.
Outside of Námo's study, Lórien huffed and grumbled.
"'Look after your realm!'" he mocked, "'Do something useful! Give somebody a sweet dream!'"
Lórien halted his steps and thought about the situation for a moment.
"Sweet dreams are boring. But making a maiden blush with an inappropriate dream – that could be fun. Or…"
Suddenly, a big grin spread over the Vala's face. Then he rubbed his hands and quickly headed for his own chambers.
There was a lot of work to be done tonight….
* * *
"Is there anything wrong, my lady?" Celeborn asked, without looking up from the message he had just received. His face wore a most displeased expression, for the lord of the Golden Wood did not appreciate being disturbed when he was reading his morning post. And Galadriel had disturbed him with the drumming of her finger tips on the table.
"No, on the contrary, dear husband."
Galadriel bent forward, and her morning robe opened a little in the front, revealing a triangle of perfect, milky-white skin. She ran her middle finger around the edge of her glass of sweet wine, and batted her lashes at her husband.
"It is such a beautiful day – I wondered if you and I could not take a walk in the woods?"
The only thing moving in Celeborn's face was his left eyebrow, which arched towards his hairline.
"A walk in the woods? But my dear lady – there is so much work to do, when would I find the time for such a thing? This aside, I know what my trees look like, so there is no need for a walk. If you have seen one tree, you have seen them all."
"But Celeborn, we never get to spend any time together anymore. Can you not leave work alone for a single day?"
"My dear wife – you cannot possibly be asking me to neglect my duties towards this realm and its people for such a trivial cause! I must say, I am very surprised!"
Galadriel pouted, then she tried once again to attract the attention of her husband, whose eyes were already fixed on the scroll in front of him again.
"We could also stay in," she purred, and stretched out her leg, her foot caressing Celeborn's ankle, " you might be even more surprised …"
Celeborn shifted his chair away from the table, looking disgustedly at his wife.
"Now that is enough, Galadriel! I cannot believe what you are suggesting here!"
"But beloved – we have not shared bodily pleasure for over 5000 years!"
"Of course not! We are married! We have one daughter! You know very well that Elves only share their bodies for the purpose of reproduction! Now stop behaving like an Elfling and finish your breakfast!"
With that, he returned to his scroll, and Galadriel cried silently into her porridge.
* * *
Erestor read through the scroll in front of him, adding his comments at the bottom and setting the document aside to allow the ink to dry. Then he took another scroll, studied it, commented and added it to the previous one. And so on. Scroll after scroll. Day in, day out. He had done so from morning to evening, for more centuries than he cared to admit. Now he stretched his arms to relax his muscles, which had become tense from working, hunched over his desk. His eyes hurt, too – so many nights spent reading by flickering candle light were not doing him much good. Looking down at his fingers, he noticed the many ink stains with annoyance.
The door opened, and a stern looking lady entered. Her dark brown hair was held firmly back from her face with a wooden clasp and she held a baby. Two small children, a boy and a girl, clung to her robes.
"You are still working? Have you forgotten that it is Loriel's begetting day? We intended to celebrate."
Erestor winced at the sharp tone, but bowed his head in apology.
"Please forgive me, dear wife. Of course I would never forget the day our eldest son was conceived. I shall be with you in a few minutes. I just have to finish this last scroll here for lord Elrond."
"Lord Elrond, lord Elrond… one day you will work yourself to death for your lord Elrond. Is he grateful? No. Did he raise your salary in the last two centuries? No. Really, Erestor, I wish you would finally speak up."
Erestor rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was not the first time he had had this discussion with his wife, and he knew the outcome already. Without a doubt, lord Glorfindel would be brought up any moment. And indeed…
"I really do not understand this. You do all the work, and others reap the fruits. Just look at lord Glorfindel – I mean, do we really know he is a Balrog-slayer? Anybody could turn up here and pretend to be a reborn legendary first age hero! If you ask me, he is only a very clever young Elf who lives on the goodwill and naivety of the people here, and if it was up to me, he would…"
"As I said before, my dear wife, I have to finish my work here, then I shall join you."
His wife snorted, then she shooed the two children out of the door, readjusting the baby, which had begun to whine, in her arms. The boy's head appeared in the door frame. He showed his father his tongue and pulled a face.
"Oh, I see – the great advisor knows better than his poor, stupid wife. Very well, do as you please. Just do not come to me complaining about too much work later."
With that, she rushed out of the room, and once more Erestor sighed, returning his attention to the scroll in front of him. Before he could put quill to paper again, there was a knock on the door. Annoyed, he looked up, and barked: "Come in already!"
In came the afore-mentioned lord Glorfindel, munching an apple. Without further ado, he sat on Erestor's desk, smudging the ink on the scrolls which lay there to dry and pushing a book over the edge, so that it landed with a loud "thud" on the floor.
"Glorfindel! How many times have I told you…" he began, but the other Elf interrupted him, wagging his index finger.
"Ah, ah, ah, Master Erestor – that is "lord Glorfindel" to you, have you forgotten already? I am the famous Balrog-slayer and deserve proper respect."
Secretly Erestor thought that what this Elfling deserved was a good spanking, but he held his tongue.
"Very well then, lord Glorfindel. What can I do for you?"
"A lot, I hope. Lord Elrond agrees with me that an Elven noble of my fame needs a personal assistant. Though you are not the brightest Elf in Imladris and about as entertaining as a dried lemon, you do have decent handwriting, so you will be pleased to hear that the honour of writing down my biography will be yours."
He clapped his hands, rubbed them and wiggled his eyebrows at the horrified advisor.
"I see you are overwhelmed with joy. Not that this surprises me. Very well then – let us begin right away! Please write: 'A Hero's Tale – the memoirs of Glorfindel of Gondolin'. That is the title. It is very fetching, is it not?"
"Very," Erestor muttered, as the tip of his quill scratched over the parchment.
"I see you have more taste than I thought. Now for the first sentence – the beginning is always the most difficult part of a book, you know. Now write: 'My most remarkable character trait has always been my modesty…"
* * *
"Legolas! Legolas! Your ada wishes to see you, come with me, immediately!"
The summons of Thranduil was a command which would not suffer any gainsaying, not even in the grey hours of the early morning after a very wild night. Legolas jumped out of the bed, slipped in his clothes and rushed out of the door without looking back at his still sleeping lover. He followed the servant through long corridors until, finally, he stood at the front door of King Thranduil's Great Cave. His ada was already waiting for him, wearing a morning robe and a pair of enormous warg-skin slippers. With him were his guards and advisors.
"Legolas! Would you be courteous enough to explain this to me?"
The son of Thranduil looked rather vacant as he stared at the enormous item which blocked the main road to the Great Cave. He looked it up and down, then he scratched his head and shrugged. He balanced on his toes in order to read the card which was fastened to the thing with a large red bow.
"To Legolas," he read out loud, "from a secret admirer."
"Legolas!" Thranduil yelled again, his arms folded over his chest and his foot tapping on the ground impatiently. "What is this?"
"Well, from where I stand, it looks like a horse."
"Clever boy. And can you next explain to me why a giant wooden horse is blocking the entrance to my home?"
Again, Legolas shrugged.
"Maybe it is a present from Eómer?"
Meanwhile, unnoticed by Legolas, a slim figure came shuffling through the main door of the Great Cave, yawning and clutching a linen sheet around her otherwise naked body, the end of which trailed on the ground, collecting dead leaves. The woman was very beautiful, her blond hair cascading over her bare shoulders, and now she stepped up behind Legolas and put her hands over his eyes, dropping the blanket in the process.
"Yoo-hoo, love, guess who it is!" she giggled. Legolas jumped as if he had just stepped on a scorpion, spun around and stared at the woman, who made a big show of picking up the blanket and wrapping it around herself again. Then she pointed at Thranduil, who had gone dark red by now, standing with his arms akimbo in front of his son like a vengeful god from the days of old.
"Oh, another cute little Elf! Don't you want to introduce me, my love?"
"Sire," Thranduil's chief advisor whispered to him, "I am most afraid that we have a bit of a situation here…"
Thranduil looked at the horse, at his son, the woman and back at the horse again.
"I tend to agree with you," he muttered.
"Sire," the advisor began, but Thranduil cut him off.
"Before we do anything else, move this thing away!"
"Very well, Sire, but…"
"Stop interrupting me! Do as you are told!" Thranduil barked.
"Shall we bring it into the Great Hall?"
"Has everybody gone insane here?" Thranduil howled, glaring at his advisor. "Send the ugly thing to Elrond. His begetting day is next week, this way I save the gold for a present."
The Guards of Mirkwood began to push the giant horse away, and the advisor made one last try to catch his king's attention.
"Sire – it really is important. There is somebody who wishes to see you. He said his name was Achilles and it was about a stolen item…"
"Achilles? What a ridiculous name - is he a dwarf?"
"No, Sire. A mortal. But he wears a skirt."
Thranduil sighed. It was one of those days again.
* * *
"Nooooo! Noooo!" Melpomaen screamed, kicking free of the bedsheets and finally sitting up, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with terror.
"Have you gone insane?" yelled Celeborn, who had been kicked out of the bed when Melpomaen had begun to thrash around. However, when he saw the terror on the young Elf's face, he calmed down immediately and tried to comfort him.
"Did you have a nightmare, young one?" he asked, hugging Melpomaen. The young advisor did not answer, he just hid his face in Celeborn's neck, crying.
"I will take that as a 'yes'," the Elven lord grumbled, as he patted Melpomaen's back a little clumsily.
"There, there now, it was only a dream."
"A dream? ONLY a dream?"
Melpomaen emerged from the depths of Celeborn's nightshirt and clutched its collar, shaking the Elven lord to and fro.
"It was a nightmare of Mordorian proportions, Celeborn! I dreamt that you refused to make love to your wife!"
"And this is nightmarish precisely why?"
"You said Elves only share their bodies for reproductive purposes, and –"
Melpomaen was not able to finish his sentence, because Celeborn roared with laughter.
"I said WHAT?" he howled, ignoring Melpomaen's wounded expression. "By the Valar, a sad sort of life that would be! Only for reproductive purposes – are you trying to tell me the Elves in your dream only make love every 5000 years?"
Melpomaen nodded. He looked so adorable with his pout that Celeborn had to kiss him.
"This is divine justice, my dear," he then stated, cuddling the young Elf once more, "for all the nights when you insisted that I had to sleep on the couch!"
"That could happen again, you know," Melpomaen tartly replied.
Which, as expected, shut Celeborn up very effectively.
* * *
"Nooooo! Noooo!" Erestor screamed, kicking free of the bedsheets and finally sitting up, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with terror.
"Shhh, shhh beloved, all is fine, you only had a nightmare." Glorfindel tried to soothe his distraught husband. He gently put an arm around him.
"A nightmare? Are you sure?" the advisor groaned, then he clung to the strong, reassuring figure of his husband and sobbed into his nightshirt.
"Oh Fin, it was so terrible! There… there was this lady I was married to… and three children… and you were an Elfling… and you ate an apple… and… and… and…"
"Calm down, my love," Fin comforted Erestor, rubbing his back and pressing the trembling advisor even closer to his body.
"There are no ladies here, and definitely none that you are married to. Or so I hope. Shhh, it was really only a bad dream."
After a while, Erestor calmed down, his rushed breathing returned to normal, and he let out a deep sigh of relief.
"Oh Fin – that was the worst nightmare I ever had! Please, please, please, promise me that you will never write your memoirs!"
"I do not pretend to understand what you are talking about, but as your wish is my command: no, I shall not write my memoirs. But you must promise something as well."
Erestor kissed him, then he ran his hand lovingly over Glorfindel's hair, which was still tousled from sleep.
"Of course, my love. Whatever you want. What shall I promise?"
Glorfindel, who had been torn out of a truly terrible nightmare by Erestor's screaming, looked his husband firmly in the eye.
"Promise me to never touch a whip as long as you live, Erestor."
"A whip?"
Erestor stared at Glorfindel as if the Balrog-slayer had suddenly grown a second head.
"What in the Valar's name should I need a whip for, Fin?"
"I will not tell you," Glorfindel answered, drawing Erestor down to him and making sure the advisor lay close to his body, his head resting comfortably on Fin's broad chest.
"Why not?"
"I do not want to give you any ideas," Fin answered, "and now go to sleep."
He blew out the candle, and after a few minutes, all that could be heard was the deep, regular breathing of the two Elves.
* * *
"Nooooo! Noooo!" Legolas screamed, kicking free of the bedsheets and finally sitting up, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with terror. He took a few deep breaths, then he pushed the sweat-soaked strands of hair out of his face and dropped back onto his mattress.
What a nightmare! And he couldn't even complain, for his ada had warned him more than once that drinking such highly potent beverages before bed-time would bring bad dreams. He lay there for a while, calming his breath, then he sat up, walked over to the small sidetable and picked up the bottle. He marched to the sink and up-ended it.
"No more milk for me," he grumbled, "from now on, all I drink is water and Miruvor."
* * *
Námo had finished his work. He walked to his chamber and opened the door. To his great surprise, the usually sparsely furnished room was decorated with dozens of candles, their light bathing the whole chamber in a warm glow.
Even more surprising, however, was the fact that Lord Elrond's youngest son was lying on his front in the middle of the bed, batting his lashes at the Vala and beckoning him with his finger.
Námo studied the scene for a moment, then he turned on his heel, closed the door behind him without a sound and walked down the corridor to Lórien's chambers. Without knocking, he entered the home of the Vala of Dreams, and found the blond stretched out on his bed, hands crossed behind his head, whistling a merry tune.
"You," he said, "are a very silly Vala."
Then he left, and Lórien grinned, all the more widely when Námo's head reappeared in the doorframe a short while later.
"And thank you, by the way."
With that, Námo was gone, the door clicked shut, and Lórien could hear the steps of the serious, noble and dignified Vala of Death in the corridor.
And there could be no doubt that the serious, noble and dignified Námo was running.