No Silmarils - no problems by Blue Slug

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Chapter 1

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“Yet he (Maglor) yielded at last to the will of Maedhros, and they took counsel together how they should lay hands on  Silmarils. And they disguised themselves, and came at night to the camp of Eonwe, and crept into the place where  Silmarils were guarded; and they slew the guards, and laid  hands on the jewels. Then all the camp was raised against them, and they prepared to die, defending themselves until the last (…) and departing unfought they fled far away.  Each of them took to himself a Silmaril, for they said: “Since one is lost  to us, and but two remain, and we two alone of our brothers, so it is plain  that fate would have us share the heirlooms of our  father.”

This is where it all began.

***

“Perhaps we could stop now?” lamented Maglor tiredly as he disentangled another dry leaf from his hair, thinking drearily that if this went on the same way, he would not only have bugs on his head but maybe even something like elephants and hippos. The Silmaril, hidden in one of the pockets on his belt, seemed to giggle gloatingly.  “I definitely need rest; the sooner the better.”

“Patience. We’ll walk a little more and then find a spot to lie down,” said Maedhros, trying to calm Maglor down. “Otherwise they may catch us. “

“This is what you said an hour ago! Enough! We can’t see where we’re going!” The normally calm and composed Mighty Singer was now about to fall into hysterics.

 “Why are saying we can’t?” responded the elder brother, puzzled, as he was using his Silmaril as a lantern.  At first the gem had tried to “bite” him but now seemed to be behaving, obediently lighting up the surroundings for a few steps in front of them.

“Just because!” muttered Maglor defiantly. He sat on a huge knobby root of a tree, obviously determined not to go anywhere until morning. “There isn’t even a path.  We can’t run into any trouble, like-”

He failed to continue with the train of thought, unable to think of what that trouble could be.

Suddenly, from the dark depth of the forest where the light of the Silmaril could not reach, they heard strange sounds, thunderous in the silence. Knocking, as if someone was throwing small pebbles at trees’ trunks…no, steps…no, not really steps but swift jumping. Then running, sometimes of two feet, sometimes of four, sometimes over branches, sometimes on the ground. An animal, or something animal-like, was approaching from the woods. The creature sounded like it couldn’t be any smaller than a cat…but the kind of creature that was able to make such sounds while moving, the two Elves could not guess.  

 

 

 

As it got closer and closer, Maglor took out his dagger, rightly thinking that a sword would hardly be effective against a cat-size creature.

“The light is attracting it,” muttered The Mighty Singer, turning his head and listening to the swift sniffing from the dark. The unknown creature seemed to be looking for something, delving in the dry leaves the way it was. The strange knocking stopped. 

“Don’t move now, and don’t hide the light, it’ll find us anyway. This way we will at least see it.  Hold on the gem tight, I‘ll cover you,” whispered Maglor.

After a brief moment of doubt, Maedhros nodded. Standing in the middle of the illuminated clearing, the brothers tensely waited for the beast, overwhelmed with an internal feeling of strangeness and a sense of danger for mysterious creature. 

The moment of silence was broken by a bloodcurdling howl, which changed to a quiet whining… again, the familiar knocking as if a pebble fell…a sharp triumphant yelp, a dashing bounce, a bump in the dark…and then something small but rather heavy hit Maedhros painfully right between his eyes.

Struck with this sudden and strong blow, the red-headed Elf plopped on his back, the Silmaril knocking out of his hand.  Next to him lay the “instrument of crime” - a big acorn.  Their ears were hurt by a splitting scream, and in the next moment an unknown creature appeared in the center of the lit circle in one huge leap.

Never in all his long and eventful life had Maglor seen such a terrible monster.  A little bigger in size than a normal cat, the creature had the look and body structure of some incredible hybrid of a rat and a squirrel. Its grey hair was scruffy, claws straining to be catching something in the air, its keen long nose twitching all the time as it was sniffed. From its mouth, two terrible fangs protruded, as sharp as razors, as big as fingers. The Mighty Singer even seemed to notice a drop of poison on one of the fangs… but worst of all were the creature’s eyes. Enormous, round and whitish, they were hypnotizing. Immobilizing, enervating with their lunatic glare. 

The monster remained still for some time, shifting his glance from the acorn to the Silmaril and back again. Maedhros was still unconscious and Maglor, paralyzed by the glare, or by the very presence of the creature, was sitting motionless on the cold ground, too scared even to breathe.  At some point, he thought that the creature’s pupils, thrashing about, suddenly doubled…became four…

Suddenly, as if having made a decision, the monster looked at the acorn for the last time, squeaked   lamentably, and after a second, began jumping away into the woods, happily holding the Silmaril in its claws.

***

“It didn’t bite you, did it?” inquired Maedhros as he shook the hysterical Maglor, feeling like his tongue was barely able to move. His head ached, green spots floating in front of his eyes; the accursed acorn almost had broken his skull.  But Maglor was hardly able to provide any distinct answer.

By and large, the situation was worse than ever. They were in the forest, having totally lost their way, after being attacked by a monster more dreadful than any Orc; one of them had been badly hit on the head, while the second was in an absolutely senseless condition, not even considering the probable bite from those poisonous fangs.

But the worst of all was that one of the two remaining Silmarils seemed to be lost forever.  Really, they couldn’t chase that poisonous and speedy beast in the forest – besides, this creature seemed to be too skilled in throwing acorns!

‘What should we do now?’ thought the red-haired Elf as he held his shaking brother in his arms, keeping an eye on the dark sky and on the even darker and threatening forest, and of course on the last remaining source of light. ‘If someone else bursts in here I’ll tear him into pieces if needed, as long as I keep the gem!  But still, what should I do, pray? Wait until a hint falls from the sky?”

A bright flash right above their heads. A wild cry tearing from several throats.  A strike from something small, soft and definitely alive- there seemed to be more than one. Then- darkness. His face was pressed to the cold ground, someone’s heavy bottom squeezing his nape. There was another at his side even as two tramped on his back. Sharp bird claws scratched his skin through his cloak and shirt.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaa! Where are weeeeeeeee?!! We’ll all die!!!” whined a strange childlike voice.

“How could this happen? Where was there an error? My calculations were correct, I tested it on the lemurs,” muttered another voice with a tone of wonder. They could hear the sound of a poorly sharpened pencil writing quickly on a paper.

“Fish!!!” This excited scream sounded more like a snarl.

“Rico!!!” yelled a hoarse voice with a clear commanding intonation, so jarring that it shook up the already shaken brain of the Elf.  “Don’t touch this thing, it is, I’m sure, radioactive! Private, stop panicking! We’ve been in worse scrapes. Kowalski, options!

“According to my calculations there is a ninety-four percent probability that we suffer from IH effect, which appeared as a side effect of my recent invention,” answered the one who had recently been worried about the inaccuracy of his calculations.

“What, damn it all, is this effect?” demanded ‘the commander’, who was still sitting on the back of the Elf’s head. He definitely sounded angry.

“The Inkheart Effect, Skipper, nothing extraordinary. I considered it unlikely, as, according to the results of testing on lemurs, its probability is very slim. “

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Fish!”

“Damn, hold him!!!” Skipper bellowed, jumping off Maedhros’ head. “Rico thinks his glowing stuff is a fish!”

Turning to his side, but still hesitating to stand up, the red-haired Elf was no longer surprised, watching the three strange animals -no, birds. They had small useless wings, thick bodies, and black-and-white fur (one wouldn’t wish to call it “feathers”). At the moment, three of them were barely restraining the fourth one, who, obviously, was Rico.  The latter stuck his tongue out of his beak and shouted something like “Fish! Fish!” He was maniacally rushing to the last remaining Silmaril at the edge of the clearing.

‘No, not this time!’ Maedhros thought, suddenly angry while trying to ignore his headache. Maglor seemed to be safe so far as he was sitting on the nearest tree, so he rose to his feet.

A swift movement from the side…an incredible smashing blow to his chest… a flickering black-and-white body moving with a speed unbelievable for such a clumsy shape…the strange birds suddenly a dizzying eight, then sixteen, before it all became one dull-grey mess.

***

“Did you knock him out?”

“Almost. He isn't in danger anymore.”

While Skipper was looking to the side, Rico managed to slip out from Private’s and Kowalski’s clingy grip and, with all possible speed, rushed to the desired “fish” as it invitingly shone at the edge of the clearing.

“Rico, stop!!!”

Too late. A holdup, a mighty gulp… it didn’t fit in! Some space must be freed for this wonderful fish.   What stuff could be removed from the stomach? Well, bombs, fuses, a pack of hand-grenades…no way that all could be thrown away...Ah, there’s something! A bottle…down with it! Up with the fish!

It didn’t fit in again…he’d have to sacrifice something else…no, not his favorite doll, and not the cat-shaped washing sponge…but a huge pink blanket of faux fur probably won’t probably be useful. How did it get into his stomach anyway?  It had to go; out!

Meanwhile, Maedhros’ head and the body had been covered with something soft and fluffy. He still doesn’t have strength for even a slight movement, not to mention standing up. The light of the Silmaril flickered for the last time before disappearing in the maw of the greedy bird. Together with darkness, apathy comes. 

“Aaaaai! There’s a spider here! Huge!”

“Mort!!!  Many times I told you - don’t touch the King’s feet!!!”

A heavy and very full bottle rolled under his hand, almost as if it was moving by itself, before knocking with its smooth and cold side, even splashing invitingly… but, unfortunately for Maedhros, it turned out to be impossible to take out the cork with only one hand.

Luckily, Maglor finally climbed down from the tree, at first wary and careful to make sure there were no monsters around. A familiar smell of booze hit his nose. Life gets better, life gets merrier…

“What big hairless ears! Mort loves big hairless ears!”

***

Morning.  The sunlight boldly made it through the fluffy thickness of the blanket and painted the inner world pink. Somewhere in the forest a crazy bird is chirping. Now, even yesterday’s Scrat seems more ridiculous than scary. The acorn rests in his pocket.

So… Morning…MORNING?

And yesterday…yesterday…WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY?

This is what (or something like this) the slightly embarrassed Maedhros was thinking, sitting up with a surprisingly clear and fresh head. He somewhat perplexedly stared at the almost full bottle of booze, which was stuffed under a tree. It looked very offended. Definitely, this was not the reason for his memory blackouts.

Maglor who, with a blissful smile, was hugging his improvised pillow (that is, his dear brother), looked incredibly cute and touching in his sleep. And it was even cuter that he, in a inarticulate whisper, was making a declaration of love to someone Melman; he also periodically called himself Gloria.

 Something small, warm and fluffy tumbled under his shirt.

“Ha –ha! What is this? These are two hairless lemurs! Mort loves big hairless lemurs!  Mort loves big hairless ears!”

As to prove his tender and passionate affection, the abovementioned ears were immediately licked; in fact, Maedhros did not think it very unpleasant.

 Somehow, there was an obsessive song turning in his head:

“I like to move it, move it…”
“I like to move it, move it...”