Stupid Stories for Irreverent Elves by darthfingon

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Fingon the Valiant

Fingon, others.

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"We demand action!" said the Sindarin man. He stood in Fingolfin's reception hall with six of his fellows, all farmers from the plains to the north of Eithel Sirion, and all six of them grumbled and nodded in agreement. "This has gone on too long. Our lives and families are in danger, and even the land itself. Something must be done."

Under their collective angry stare, Fingolfin shifted uncomfortably. "Yes," he said. "Well. Hmm. I thank you, sirs, for bringing this trouble to my attention. I will order the assembly of a task force, and they will ride north to investigate your claim. If it proves valid-"

"Not good enough!" shouted one of the farmers.

"The orcs plague us now!" said another.

The first one nodded and gestured to his companions. "Every day, my kinsmen and I lose more livestock and more cropland to the greedy hands and flames of the orcs. Unless something is done now, we will have nothing left to see us through the winter! There is no time for a task force. The orcs must be stopped immediately. Killed. If you are the true king of this land, you will protect us!"

"Of course I am the true king of this land," Fingolfin said, bristling. "Do not question my authority, farmer! Of course I have the power to wipe out some pitiful band of marauding orcs! I will send a company of soldiers north at once to eliminate your problem. Will that be acceptable, you ungrateful peons?"

Frowning, the farmers gathered into a tight huddle. Their whispering voices hissed through the hall. "No," said the leader when he turned back to the King.

"No?!" Fingolfin shouted.

Another man stepped forward from the farmer's group. He looked fearful, and clutched his arms nervously across his chest. "My King, these are no average orcs. They are demon-orcs, with evil powers!"

Fingolfin blinked. "Excuse me?"

"It's true!" said one of the others. "They come like cursed shadows in the night, like foul smoke, without bodies! Only glowing eyes. We have tried to trap and kill them, but like shadows and smoke, they cannot be caught. You will need to send more than soldiers."

"How can I possibly send more than soldiers?" Fingolfin asked. "There is nothing more to send. Soldiers kill orcs. That's how it's done."

"You must send a hero!" said the leader, and an approving murmur rose from the circle of Sindar. "Only a hero can defeat great evils!"

"A… hero?"

The Sindar nodded, and their leader smiled in understanding. "Yes. A hero. To avenge the wrongs done us and vanquish the threat. Just like in the stories of olden times!"

"I'm sorry," said Fingolfin. "I don't exactly have any designated 'hero'…"

"We have heard of one," the nervous farmer replied. "A man of great courage and bravery. His heroic deeds are known across the land. The mightiest warrior of the Golodhrim!"

Fingolfin stared at them in confusion. "Who?"

"Fingon the Valiant!" cried the Sindar.

From his place in the corner of the room, where he had been sitting inconspicuously as he worked to polish the buckle on his cloak, Fingon looked up. "… Wait, what?"

~

"This is ridiculous!" he spat as he mounted his horse. "It's a beautiful day, the first rain-free morning we've had all fall, and now I have to go kill glowing-eyed smoke-demon orcs! No-one ever asks me if I had other plans…"

"Did you have other plans, my Lord?" asked his groom.

Fingon scowled. "If you must know, I wanted to go swimming today. And perhaps fishing. Risking my life was not on the agenda."

But despite his complaints, Fingon still rode out from the city's north gate with four of his best horsemen, cheered on by citizens who threw flowers in the path of their hero. Their noise of adoration clashed in his ears and gave him the beginnings of a headache. He was in a foul mood. And then in an even fouler mood yet when he and his party returned just after sundown, dragging seventeen orc heads in a sack.

"Evil powers and glowing eyes my heinie!" he complained to his father. "Those farmers have overactive imaginations. The orcs we found were of the commonest sort. In fact, they were less than that. Stupid little buggers grown fat and lazy on stolen sheep. They were all asleep under some junipers when we came upon them, and we beheaded half of the lot before the others even woke up to see what was happening. It was over in minutes."

"Mere minutes to eradicate the orcish menace!" said a breathless poet. "How heroic!"

By the next evening, a rather soppy and embarrassing song about Fingon the Valiant's great deed had started to circulate with alarming popularity. It slightly exaggerated the situation. Fingon the Valiant, however, was unable to make any corrections, as he was busy hiding in his room.

~

The Sindarin farmers were overjoyed with Fingon's work, and they spread the tale of his bravery up and down the land to anyone who would listen. Continuously. By the onset of winter, seventeen orcs had grown into seventy, and they no longer slept lazily under the junipers, but rather put up a resistance that involved fearsome weapons, black sorcery, and, for some odd reason, a unicorn. As a result, Fingon's orc-killing skills were in demand across his father's kingdom. Countrymen who before would have assembled their own raiding party or dug a pit trap now needed Fingon's expertise to handle a single wayward orc.

On top of that, the soppy and embarrassing songs had become an hourly feature of life in Eithel Sirion.

"Fingon the Valiant!" townspeople cried in admiration.

"Fingon the Valiant…" snickered his men.

"The next person who calls me Fingon the Valiant gets a fist in the eye," said Fingon the Valiant.

"But why?" asked one of the soldiers. "It's an honourable title. Better than Maedhros the Imperfect."

"What? Who calls him that?"

The soldiers looked at each other. "Sindar," they answered quickly.

"Oh, he's not going to be happy when he finds out…" said Fingon.

"But how did you earn the title in the first place?" asked another of Fingon's men. "It must have been a kingly deed you did."

Fingon scowled. "It was nothing important."

"You just say that to be modest!" said a third man. "I, for one, would like to hear the tale."

His words were greeted with a chorus of, "Yes, so would I!" and "Tell us! We want to know!"

"Believe me, it was nothing-"

"False modesty! What did you do?"

Trapped, Fingon could only slouch as far as he could until his face was partially obscured by his collar. He looked at the ground as he mumbled. "Savdmrrfrmsprr."

"What?" said the soldiers.

Fingon growled. "I saved my mother from… Oh, this is stupid…"

~

The summer that Fingon was thirty-nine, his family had decided to retreat to the lazy luxury of his uncle Finarfin's beach house just south of Alqualondë. Fingon, who would have preferred to stay behind in Tirion in the company of his cousin Celegorm, moped the entire way there. His and Celegorm's ingenious plan of building a catapult to fling themselves into Fëanor's pond would now have to wait until fall. His parents clearly had no sense of what was important in life.

Thus Fingon resolved to have no fun whatsoever while he was stuck at the beach in the humiliating presence of his parents and younger brother. He lay on his back on the bed in the room he had been assigned, and glared at the ceiling. His mother accused him of being moody and difficult, but the truth was that he was being no more difficult than they, who had refused to let him spend the summer with Celegorm. And logically, if he remained on his worst behaviour the entire time, next year they would rethink their stance of forcing him to come along if his presence only made everyone involved miserable.

He was halfway through his third day of sulking in bed when a terrified scream ripped through the air and caused him to jump up in alarm. "Ammë!" he said. He assumed it was his mother who screamed, and then screamed again; no other women were nearby. He flung open his bedroom door and raced down the stairs with two thoughts on his mind. One, that he had to save his mother, whom he secretly adored despite having to act like a surly youth all the time, and two, that if she were upset enough about whatever caused her to scream, there was a chance the family might return to Tirion as soon as possible. He prayed for this to be true.

Bursting into the sitting room, he found his mother backing slowly into a corner and screaming like her life depended on it. He followed her terrified gaze to the floor… where his eyes fell upon the largest spider he had ever seen. Not counting the one Celegorm had brought back from the forest in a jar.

He had to shout to be heard above his mother's shrieks. "Ammë! What should I-"

"Get your father!" she yelled back. "Get your father! Now!"

Fingon spun around just in time to collide with his father, who had come running in from the garden to investigate the din.

"Anairë? What-"

The spider moved sideways, and Anairë's voice failed. "Get rid of it!" she whispered hoarsely. Her hand shook as she pointed.

Warily, Fingolfin got down on the floor on his hands and knees, directly between his wife and the spider, and gently blew on it in a feeble attempt to make it go away. The spider retaliated by running directly toward him. Swearing loudly, he leapt out of the way. Anairë turned white as the spider continued its march forward.

"Get it..." she said in a faint whisper. "Oh please oh please get it, just get it, oh please get it..." She had backed herself in to a corner, where there was only a short stool for protection. Her eyes never left the spider as she stepped up onto the stool.

The spider was large and lumpy, mottled grey and white and black, and it walked proudly up off the floor on its long, crooked legs in a bouncing gait. Fingon could see his father shudder and clench his teeth as he looked at it. "Don't worry, love..." Fingolfin said in a shaky voice. "I'll... I'll get it for you... I'll remove it..."

He bent over again, reaching his hand toward the spider with a look of terrified determination on his face, and the tip of his finger brushed its leg.

Anairë screamed again, having rediscovered her voice. "Don't touch it don't touch it don't touch it oh Valar don't touch it!" she shrieked. "If you touch that horrible thing with your bare skin I'm never letting you touch me again!"

Fingolfin looked both relieved and confused. "But if I don't pick it up, what am I supposed to-"

"I don't care just get rid of it and for the love of Varda don't touch it!"

The spider paused in its journey, stopping a moment to do something that looked suspiciously like picking its fangs with its front legs. Then it was back on the move toward Anairë's stool. She made a sound partway between a whimper and a screech.

"Ammë," said Fingon. "Don't move. Just stay right there. I can handle this."

He pushed past his father, who stood still gaping at the spider and nervously twisting his hands, and ran for the kitchen. He grabbed the nearest container he could find, a silver water jug, and sprinted back to his mother's rescue. He came just in time. The spider had started to crawl up the leg of the stool, and Anairë stood petrified, unable to move out of its path.

"Ammë!" Fingon called to her. "Jump!"

But Anairë, stricken through with terror, stood stiff as marble. The spider reached the top of the stool and began feeling about at the hem of her skirt with its crooked legs.

Fingon had to act. He ran forward to grab his mother about the waist and lift her down to safety. Once she was out of harm's way, he scooped the spider into the silver jug. And there it stayed, scrambling uselessly to find a foothold on the smooth metal.

"My darling boy!" Anairë sighed as she gathered Fingon in an embarrassing hug, squeezing him close and kissing his forehead. "So clever and brave!

Fingon groaned. "Ammë... don't... You're being weird..." He squirmed and tried to push her away. But not too hard.

"...MUCH more reliable than your father..."

"Hey!" said Fingolfin.

"Valiant Findekáno! Always able to help his poor mother in need! You do live up to your name. Your father chose wisely for you. He is good for some things, after all."

"Hey!" Fingolfin repeated. "I almost picked up that spider for you! With my bare hands!"

Anairë ignored him and pulled Fingon closer, forcing more kisses upon him. "So brave! My son! Findekáno the Valiant!"

Cringing, Fingon rolled his eyes. "Ammë... Quit it..." He wriggled out of her grasp as she tried to pinch his cheeks, and picked up the spider jug. "I have to get rid of this."

"Far away!" said Anairë. "Take it as far away as you can, perhaps out to some trees, and make sure it won't come back!"

"I'll put it in the neighbour's garden. That family you don't like, with the loud wind chimes."

Anairë beamed. "Good boy."

Fingon carried the spider, still flailing and slipping inside its jug, outside and down the path toward the garden next door. Turgon, who was about waist-high at the time and utterly pointless as a person, ran after him.

"Finno! Finno! Whad'you got?"

"A spider."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Fingon asked with a scowl. "I'm taking it out of the house. It was on the floor. I had to save Ammë from it."

Turgon's eyes widened in obvious admiration of his brother's bravery. "Is it big?"

"Yes," sighed Fingon. Children could be so exasperating. "You think Ammë would need saving from a small spider?"

"Can I see it?"

Fingon shrugged. "Sure. I'll put it on your bed. Then you can see it up close."

Momentarily stunned, Turgon's mouth dropped open in horror. "No!" he yelled. And then he turned to flee to the safety of the house, wailing the themes of "Atar!" and "Findekáno's being mean!"

Fingon did not care.

He did care, however, when his mother told the spider story at their next extended family supper upon returning to Tirion. And then again when they were invited for breakfast at Fëanor's house. Also at the party in Olwë's honour. Each time, Fingon tried his best to disappear into his chair, but it never quite worked. All eyes always turned to him.

"O, Findekáno the Valiant!" sang Celegorm. "Do save us from the terror of spiders! I will polish your mighty silver urn!"

"Shut your ugly cake hole," said Fingon, and he kicked his cousin's shin beneath the table. Celegorm only laughed harder and kicked him back.

Maedhros gave them both a patronising sort of smile from his chair opposite. "You know, boys, you could try to behave for the duration of even one meal."

"You know, Russandolt, you could try to mind your own business," Fingon said.

"Good one," said Celegorm. He gave Fingon a high-five.

Maedhros continued smoothly, as if he had heard nothing. "Findekáno, there's nothing wrong in having such a title, and nothing to be ashamed of. Why, you should be proud that your bravery will henceforth be known to all. I will gladly support you. My cousin, Findekáno the Valiant!"

In thanks for his vote of confidence, Maedhros got a fist in the eye, resulting in an impressive shiner. He was thereafter known among his brothers and cousins as Maitimo Laquacarna. The Imperfect. Fingon later considered this name to be satisfyingly prophetic.

~

"That's it?" the soldiers asked when Fingon finished the story. "You earned your title by saving your mother from a spider?"

"I told you it was stupid," said Fingon. "Now let's never speak of it again."

The soldiers shuffled, coughed, and looked uncertain. "Well," said one, "I suppose that's not bad. You did it for your mother, after all. But still…"

"Still what?" Fingon asked.

"We just thought it would be… well…"

"More amazing," said another.

"Exactly," said a third. "Amazing. Something worthy of heroic songs."

"No wonder we never heard of this before…" grumbled somebody at the back. Disillusioned, they all started to drift away

Thereafter, once the true story of Fingon's valour was known, the calls to exterminate orcs came less frequently. Farmers reasoned that if someone who earned his fame by putting a spider into a jug could be a hero, so could they. An unusual number of self-professed orc-killing experts emerged that winter. Fingon the Valiant was out of a job.

As he sat idly in a well-stuffed chair by the fire with a cup of mulled wine and no orcs to kill, he began for the first time in his life to appreciate his own legend.