The Seventh Avenger by ElrondsScribe

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Chapter 11: Internezzo

Well, here's the last chapter containing events from Marvel's The Avengers! Hope you liked the ride.

All rights belong to Marvel Studios and to the Tolkien Estate.

May 5, 2012

Rested and refreshed, the Avengers plus one Dr. Erik Selvig stood gathered in a blocked-off space guarded by uniformed SHIELD agents. Nearly everyone was dressed down, as this was an informal occasion.

But Thor was still armored and cloaked, and so was the bound and muzzled Loki whom Thor was leading by a chain. Thor had apparently brought a specially enchanted muzzle and set of handcuffs from Asgard that he had not had the chance to put on Loki earlier; now, Loki was as satisfyingly secure as anyone could wish.

Thor bade a fond farewell to all his new friends, and promised them solemnly that tales of their mighty deeds would live on in Asgardian memory. He was especially reassuring to Dr. Selvig, and begged him to send his regards to one Jane Foster.

Erik Selvig then brought to Thor a special glass case that would hold and activate the Tesseract, which Thor grasped by one end with his free hand. Tony Stark opened a silver briefcase which held the shining blue Cube, and with a pair of tongs Bruce Banner removed the Cube from the briefcase and placed it in the glass case, which slid shut of itself. Thor then held out the other end of the case to Loki, who took it reluctantly. Thor twisted his end of the case, activating the Tesseract. A beam of blue light enveloped the two, and seemed to swallow them up; when it disappeared, they were gone.

After that, the remaining Avengers began to say their own farewells. Steve Rogers shook Tony Stark's hand before departing on his brand new Harley Davidson. Natasha Romanoff handed Bruce Banner a packed bag, which he took to Tony's sports car. Clint, Natasha, and Selvig then climbed into a black car with a SHIELD logo, and drove away. Bruce tossed his bag into the back of Tony's sports car, and then climbed in himself beside Tony, who whisked him away, probably to Stark Tower. Glorfindel got into his own car, and drove himself back to his apartment.

They'd had to take some quick action after the great battle yesterday. Fury had summoned all the Avengers to SHIELD headquarters for an urgent meeting, in which he revealed that the World Security Council, which oversaw SHIELD, had actually sent the missile that had nearly blown up the city. Furthermore, as the Council had very strongly advocated for Phase 2, Fury suspected that they would try to get their hands on the Tesseract again.

Thor had immediately reiterated that the Tesseract belonged on Asgard, far from Earth's reach, and Fury had shocked Steve by agreeing wholeheartedly. (Glorfindel had taken it upon himself to remind Steve that Fury had supported the Avengers over the super-arsenal.) Thor had suggested taking both Loki and the Tesseract to Asgard, and everybody had agreed with that.

Thor had retrieved the enchanted muzzle and handcuffs, and then gone with all the other Avengers to secure Loki. Natasha and Clint had taken them to an underground SHIELD bunker, and after Thor had assured everybody that the muzzle and handcuffs would keep Loki entirely contained, they'd shut him up in a holding cell with only basic security and left him.

Then they'd had their shawarma. Glorfindel would have liked it, if he hadn't been too tired to enjoy it properly. An obliging agent had then handed him his belongings which had been retrieved from the Helicarrier, and driven him back to his apartment. He'd promptly collapsed on his bed, clothes and all, and slept soundly for the rest of that day and all through the night.

Now, safely tucked back into his apartment for the day and lounging on the sofa, Glorfindel breathed a sigh of trepidation and turned on his mobile phone.

It was just as he had expected - his voice mailbox was completely full, and there were more missed calls and texts than he'd ever had at one time before. The first few voicemails from Thursday (the day Fury had called him in) were from Nielsen Gregory, his understudy for The Firebird, and from Jules Bruno, the company manager. The voicemails became understandably more worried as the day went on, and it wasn't long before some of Glorfindel's other friends, like Aaron and Trevor and Felicia, were also calling him. Even Peter Martins had left a voicemail.

And then came yesterday's messages, which were the bulk of the voicemails. Many were once again from his colleagues and superiors at the company, growing more and more worried as the day wore on. Most of them weren't too suspicious - they merely thought Glorfindel might have been hurt or even killed during the attack on the city. But Nielsen's voice was quivering with fear: "You son of a bitch, you better not be where I think you are. I don't care what time it is when you get this, call me." And Jules was dryly ironic: "Still absent, Taylor? Somehow I don't think you've thrown your back out again. Call us back when you get a chance, we're pretty worried."

And then Glorfindel began to hear voices he hadn't heard in years and decades: Egalmoth, wryly unsurprised that Glorfindel had managed to find a use for his new toys so quickly; Turgon and Finarfin, ranting and fuming in multiple languages in much the same style as poor Nielsen; Finrod, annoyed that he'd missed the fun, of all things; Ecthelion, trying not to show his resentment at being left uncontacted for so long under his concern; and many others.

But Elrond's voicemail said only: "I hope you realize that you've just blown your cover, and any chance you had at keeping a low profile. Take a look at the internet."

Glorfindel frowned at that one, and turned on his laptop. He opened YouTube in one tab and Google News in another, and gaped at the results.

He had completely forgotten that most people these days carried smartphones like his, and all smartphones (most mobile phones in general, actually) had cameras. Clips and photos of the battle in Manhattan, and of the fight in Germany, were being uploaded by the hour. All the major and minor news outlets were covering the attack, trying to outdo each other with fresh content.

The previous sightings of the Hulk, the exploits of Iron Man, and even the match between Thor and the great metal monster were nothing compared to the sensation that was the Battle of New York. Most of the public (and therefore most of the news media) were wildly excited, and grateful to the Avengers almost to the point of worship. Fan groups, of either the Avengers as a whole or individual heroes, were already forming. "Real superheroes!" was the common sentiment. "If only we could meet them!"

Of course there were some - mostly the politicians and financiers, of course - who felt that powered heroes like the Avengers were all very well when confined to the pages of comic books. The very real and very large-scale damage that had been done to the city would take a great deal of money and time and labor to repair, and certain People in High Places thought that the Avengers ought to be held responsible. More saddening were the reports of injury and death among the civilians, and the rage of their grief-stricken loved ones - "Where were you Avengers when my children were gunned down before my eyes?" one bereaved mother railed.

But perhaps most glaringly, at least to Glorfindel, were the New York images that focused on the inhumanly tall figure in armor, and the snapshots caught of his face in Germany. In a very daring move, a New York Times journalist by the name of Oscar Meriwether had taken especial notice of the device on Glorfindel's surcoat, and had like Fury apparently done a bit of digging.

"I may well be off admiring the Martian canals," the article began. "But devotees of JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy will tell you at length about a famous champion named Glorfindel who once wore the emblem of a yellow eight-rayed sun on a green background. We already know of the existence of Thor and Loki; what if Tolkien's beloved fantasy classics aren't fantasy at all?" Meriwether then went on to detail certain of the heroics that the tallest Avenger had been caught performing, and compared them with excerpts from Chapter 12 of The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 23 of The Silmarillion, and Chapter 3 of The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2. "Is it possible," the article concluded. "That the tallest Avenger could be the storied hero Glorfindel?"

Some news outlets ignored the article, and one or two had mocked it outright; but Huffington Post had taken the article, and the idea, and run with it as if they had proof. "What if we've had immortals living among us all along?" journalist Diane St. Clare speculated.

Furthermore, fans of the "Tolkien legendarium" were in a frenzy of excitement, posting endlessly on blogs and social media sites and thumbing their noses at skeptics. The debate over "the tall Avenger" was of course only hours old, and was still dwarfed by the enormity of aliens attacking New York and being defeated by real superheroes, but it was there, and it didn't seem likely to go away.

Glorfindel closed his tabs, and thought long and hard. He had known that this would happen, and had in theory been prepared to embrace it; but now it wasn't theory anymore. He'd let himself be seen for who and what he was, and consequently he had to deal with the reality of people guessing exactly who and what he was.

It was obvious that being outed as an Elf in 2012 would be a very different thing from being outed as an Elf in any other age. Superstition was still alive and well, but was no longer as dominant as it had been. The kinds of things that he and other Elves had suffered through in previous ages were largely looked upon with horror now (if rather hypocritical horror, considering for example certain kinds of Western entertainment). The typical American obsession with celebrities and famous people had its downsides, but perhaps its advantages might be just what the Elves needed to safely come out of hiding.

And . . . Ronald Tolkien had already published some of their stories. In a rather convoluted fashion, obviously, as quite a few different people had been buzzing in his ear, but the books were there. People knew about them, and they'd been absorbed into Western popular culture. Hell, Tony Stark had had the nerve to make a Legolas crack in Glorfindel's presence.

Legolas. Glorfindel actually chuckled. Poor lad. It really was, perhaps, time to begin to set the record straight. It might even be fun.

But first things first. Glorfindel deleted his voicemails, and tried to make what he felt would be the easiest call first - the one to Jules at the company. But nobody picked up. "We're sorry," said an automated message. "The New York Company Ballet has cancelled all activities and services until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience. If you have purchased tickets to any cancelled performances, we will assist you as soon as possible. We thank you for your patience."

Wondering how in hindsight he hadn't foreseen that (many parts of the city were blocked with rubble and many of the taller office and apartment buildings were partly or completely destroyed), Glorfindel hung up and called Nielsen's mobile phone.

"Taylor?" asked Nielsen cautiously when he picked up, as if he wasn't sure it was Glorfindel he was talking to.

"Nielsen?" said Glorfindel just as cautiously. "Hey, I'm sorry I didn't call in absent yesterday - how did The Firebird go?"

Nielsen seemed entirely thrown. "The Fireb- you've been facing down crazy demigods and monsters, and you want to know about The Firebird?"

"So you knew it was me," said Glorfindel resignedly.

"I saw your face when you and - and freakin' Captain America and Iron Man took down that psycho Loki in Germany!" said Nielsen a little wildly. "I don't know how the hell nobody else recognized you. And then an army of aliens came charging through a hole in the sky, and you were in the thick of it - I mean, I guess it was you, under that helmet . . . what are you? Is Taylor even your name?"

"Pipe down, Niels," said Glorfindel. "No, I wasn't born Taylor Alexander - but it is my legal name and I'd like to hang on to it. And as to what I was doing with myself yesterday - relax. I'm still alive, am I not? But come now, tell me about the performance yesterday!"

"There was no performance yesterday," said Nielsen. "What do you think? We were all watching the news and wondering if they'd hit us next. They almost did." He paused. "I mean, I guess I should really be saying thank you. There's a lot of people who'd kill to meet one of the Avengers in person."

"So I see," said Glorfindel. "Which is why I'm going to ask you not to tell anyone about me, for the moment."

"Of course not - but what do you mean, 'for the moment'?" asked Nielsen.

"You'll see," was all Glorfindel said before he hung up. He then dialed Turgon back, with some apprehension.

"Hello?" said the voice of Turukano, Esteemed Prince of the House of Finwë and former King of Gondolin.

"My lord Turgon?" asked Glorfindel warily, as with Nielsen earlier.

"You!" bellowed Turukano. "You orc-kissing spawn of Morgoth, one of these days I will drive a spike through your head so you can't stop my heart with fear anymore! Mad Asgardians? Magical cubes? Aliens and dragons? What were you thinking?"

"My lord, you know you're only miffed you weren't invited the party," said Glorfindel mildly.

"No, I'm 'miffed' because you of all my lords have always - always! - had the greatest talent for getting into trouble," snapped Turukáno. "If I were mortal, I'd be dead of a heart attack ten times over! Are you aware that you and your new little band of friends are all that anybody currently cares to talk about?"

"We call ourselves the Avengers, and yes, I am aware," said Glorfindel patiently. "We couldn't really help that it was public affair; Loki forced our hand in that regard."

"Really, and whose idea was the suit of armor with the device of the eight-rayed sun, complete with a sword?" demanded Turgon.

"My own, but Egalmoth made them for me," said Glorfindel. "My lord, the mortals know our stories - or enough of them do, anyway. And in the wake of Norse gods falling out of the sky, and of towering rage monsters, not to mention the revival of Captain America complete with the red-white-and blue, coming forward as Glorfindel seemed only fitting." Or at least it did when I wasn't reading news articles that guessed it might be me.

"Well, I suppose in that light . . ." grumbled Turgon, but he seemed calmer. "I suppose if they aren't crucifying these new Avengers, they won't crucify you just yet. Just don't let your inevitable screaming fans go to your already swollen head."

Glorfindel snorted. "I very much doubt that I'll have screaming fans, my lord."

Just as an aside, none of the names at the NYCB, the New York Times, or the Huffington Post are real people, certainly not at those organizations - with the exception of NYCB ballet master Peter Martins.

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