Mallorn Torment by Tehta

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Chapter 1

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"But you cannot reject me!" the dangling actor said. "I have been preparing for this role for weeks! I have developed an arrogant bearing, and alienated half of my family! I have learned to open flasks using only my left hand! I have even... sweet Eru, cannot you see that I have dyed my hair?"

Ah! So that bright orange, which clashed so unfortunately with the silver bark of the tree -- and, indeed, with just about everything -- had been a deliberate choice. Maervor could not help being impressed by such a courageous sacrifice. Master Thirwin, however, seemed to be anything but. With his hands on his hips, and his head tilted back, he appeared to be looking down on the actor; quite a feat, considering that the latter was hanging five yards above the ground.

"Yes, I did notice," he said, "that you had bleached your locks into a banal shade that has little to do with copper, and that suits you not at all. I simply decided that this was an irrelevance, because... Maervor, show him!"

Not again! Suppressing a sigh, Maervor set aside his writing tablet, re-opened the wig-case, and reached in, moving slowly and carefully in an attempt to avoid getting scratched by all the sharp wires. As usual, he failed; also as usual, he staggered a little as he raised the ridiculous object aloft.

"Is it not simply fabulous?" Master Thirwin asked. "A hairpiece truly worthy of a King of the Noldor! That's the finest Dwarven copper, partly gilded; the highlights are hand-cut ruby-tinted crystal." He gazed upon the wig like a doting grandfather upon a baby. Maervor's arms had begun to burn with the effort by the time he made a gesture of dismissal.

"Metal and crystal?" The actor shifted in his harness. "But then... it must weigh more than a full breastplate! These straps are uncomfortable enough already, and with all that weight added... Surely you cannot expect an artist to focus, and give a worthy performance!"

"I expect no such thing," said Master Thirwin. "At least, not when the artist in question is you. Just listen to yourself speak: that petulant tone! I remember it well from your reading. Starting at 'Long past, my dreams of martial horns and drums' and all the way to 'So cousin mine, let fly your arrow fleet', you did nothing but whinge and complain. Is that how you imagine Maedhros Feanorion? As an epic whiner?"

"I imagine him to be a man pushed to his very limit. *You* need listen to yourself -- to your own play. Have you forgotten that Maedhros begged for his death?"

"Certainly, he made a reasoned, stoic request. I am quite sure he did not wail and squirm about in an undignified manner. Nor did he," Master Thirwin smiled unkindly, "make extemporaneous references to Earendil."

"That," said the actor, his manner actually quite dignified for someone swinging, half-naked, against the trunk of a large tree, "was an Acting Choice. I was adding a Third Age touch to this ancient legend, so as to draw even a modern, sceptical audience into the story. Such is the spell we actors weave, when a natural, honest performance reveals a universal truth -- here in Lorien, at least. It appears that you, back in your backwater of Rivendell, prefer to hypnotize your viewers with shiny objects and heroic shouting."

"I prefer to work with people who can rise above the commonplace!" shouted Master Thirwin.

Oh Eru, not this argument again. Maervor braced himself for another lecture on Creating a Vivid Reality Beyond the Mundane. His teacher could spend hours just explaining how all plays dealing with the Helcaraxe must be staged on actual ice -- skates optional. Meanwhile, the trees' shadows had almost reached their dinnertime positions, and they had found no Maedhros.

"And I will have you know," Master Thirwin was now saying, "that I am here at the personal request of your Lady Galadriel, who happens to appreciate my mannered and refined style. When she attended the premiere of my Tragedy At Alqualonde, she understood what I was trying to accomplish immediately -- so gracious, did not mind getting drenched at all -- and issued the invitation on the spot!"

"As a favour to her daughter, perhaps?"

The question knocked Master Thirwin right out of his monologue. He turned away from the scene, perhaps to hide his now-glistening eyes. "I cannot bear to look at this hack any longer," he said. "Lower him, Maervor; he does not deserve to hang so high."

However, by the time Maervor had worked the pulley, and released the smirking actor, he seemed to have regained his usual demeanor. "So!" he said. "Much like the kingship of the Noldor, we must move on to the next man. Who is that, Maervor?"

Maervor glanced down at his tablet. "This one's a last-minute addition. A marchwarden, by the name of Rumil. I suspect he's over there -- one of the three in the cloaks."

"The three... Oh, I see. I thought they were here to help with the scenery. Or perhaps simply to blend in with it." Master Thirwin raised his hand to his forehead dramatically. "Does no-one in this primitive forest have any presence?"

"The Lady Ga--"

"Apart from the Lady, obviously. Anyway, we cannot well ask her, even if she would look splendid in-- No, no, we need her in the audience, this first time. We must make do with what we are offered. At least those three are tall enough not to need the raised boots." He raised his hand again, this time to beckon to the small group. "Come! We are ready for you. So," he continued as the figures drew near, moving silently in almost-martial unison, "which of you three is Rumil?"

The grimmest of the men, and the least grim, both turned towards the third, whose apprehensive expression half-masked his medium degree of grimness, and looked at him until he answered, "I am."

"Well met, Rumil. I am Master Thirwin, renowned dramaturge, accompanied by," he waved a hand in Maervor's direction, "my trusty assistant. Now then. Tell me why you believe you could be a truly marvelous Noldorin king."

"What?" Rumil stared.

Master Thirwin stared back.

After a few moments of this stand-off, Maervor the trusty assistant decided to live up to his name. "Master Thirwin means Maedhros."

No change.

"Maedhros, the hero of the play? The play you are auditioning for? Auditions are a process where--"

"Yes, I am here to be in the play," Rumil said. "However, I know nothing about any Noldorin kings, marvelous or otherwise."

"Your announcement," the least-grim Marchwarden put in helpfully, "mentioned only peak physical condition, and an ability to hang about in trees. Rumil is fully qualified, on both counts."

"Hmm." Master Thirwin frowned. "As far as physical condition goes, yes, he is certainly the best-qualified candidate. But... does that mean that you are not familiar with my 'Thangorodrim Torments'?"

"'Thangorodrim Torments' is the title of the play," Maervor said before the blank staring could recommence. "More specifically, the title of a play about Maedhros the King of the Noldor, which we are hoping to stage, and which you are, perhaps, auditioning for."

"And which I wrote," Master Thirwin said, "and which many people have read, and praised. Not any of you, apparently, though."

"No," the grimmest Marchwarden said. "Although we did read the title, in your announcement, and liked the sound of it. Very apt."

Rumil groaned. "Apt! Hardly! It does not even mention any Noldorin kings. Haldir, do I really--"

"Yes. Yes, you do. So, Master Dramaturge, how should our Rumil begin?"

"Well... I suppose Maervor can fetch him a script while he doffs his clothes. Bring out the wig, too, Maervor. I think this canidate can handle it."

"While he doffs his clothes?" Haldir-the-grim-Marchwarden asked. "I grow increasingly fond of this play."

Rumil sent him a betrayed glance before stepping over to the base of the mallorn, where he undressed with a quiet, resigned efficiency. The wig gave him a moment's pause, but he lifted it into position with enviable ease.

"Odd sort of helmet," he said, pushing at one of the wiry strands. "A Noldorin design, is it?"

"A dramatic design." Maervor led him over to the harness. "Overdramatic, even. I take it you are not very familiar with the theater?"

"No."

"Then why -- excuse my asking -- why are you here?"

"I made an ill-advised bet."

Rumil's expression did not invite further questions -- and, anyway, it was time to use the pulley. Maervor did so, his wig-abused arms protesting, before re-joining the others in admiring his handiwork.

"Do you not find," the non-Haldir Marchwarden was saying, "this scene reminiscent of the time Rumil got caught in that spider-trap?"

"Maybe a little... But he was upside down, then. Master Thirwin, can we turn him upside down?"

"It would not be historically accurate. Also, it would make him look a little... humorous."

"Yes," Haldir said. "It would."

"And," Master Thirwin continued, "while humour is a form of art, it is a rather low form. I prefer his current appearance; he has a subtly tragic air. I only hope his performance will match it."

"So," non-Haldir said musingly, "you like the way he is hung, but suspect his performance will be lacking? I believe I have heard that bef--"

"Orophin! Haldir!" Rumil's tragic air had lost all subtlety. "This torment... please, let it end now! Or, if you cannot, just shoot me!"

An odd sound, somewhere between a whoop and a shriek, rent the air. It appeared to have issued from Master Thirwin.

"Perfect!" he now shouted. "Yes, that is it exactly: the new way! Maervor, can you see it? Hand me the script... Here, I must redraft -- never mind the poetry -- so vivid, so honest, beyond the mundane -- oh, I will show them all!" His pen scratched furiously.

All the Marchwardens, whether earthbound or not, watched him in some confusion.

"Maervor?" Haldir asked tentatively. "You understand what just happened, do you not?"

"Yes. Master Thirwin is excited because he has found a way to--" Save his career? "Move the theatrical arts in a new and exciting direction. With your help, Rumil."

"I see," Haldir said. "That sounds very important. But what does he expect from Rumil?"

"A naturally stoic performance. Which means," Maervor added after noticing the first signs of blank staring, "that, regardless of the words in the script, Rumil should act... grim, and vaguely annoyed."

Haldir looked up, towards the tree. "Do you think you can manage that?"

Rumil said nothing. He merely glared down in sullen irritation.

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Chapter End Notes

This fic was written for Claudio's fix exchange, where everyone gave two prompts: a person and a location, and received two in return. Mine were:
Person: The Elf in The Hobbit who said "Well, well!...Just look! Bilbo the hobbit on a pony, my dear! Isn't it delicious!"
Location: Bole of a mallorn in Lórien