I Know Better Gods by AnnEllspethRaven, Spamberguesa

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Chapter 1

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{S.A. 3434 – Plains of Dagorlad} 

Thanadir stood ramrod straight, flanking King Oropher and Prince Thranduil. His left hand gripped the pommel of his sword while his keen hazel eyes cast their gaze over the scene before them. Legions of orcs and worse swarmed the ashen-gray plains rolling away before them – foul gray beings fouling an even fouler landscape; the vomit of distant Orodruin whose evil glow could at times be discerned in the distance beyond the black and unyielding walls of the Morannon. He knew why they were here, and he had reconciled himself to dying in this place if it was to be. Somewhere amidst the mass of their forces his own father held a bow along with other thousands of their kindred. Quick, fleet of foot, leather-armored, and woefully out of place their army waited to serve this ill-prepared mission, for the skills of the Wood-Elves ruled the forest lands of Eryn Galen whence they came – not these open ashlands whose sole greenery was the occasional twisted shrub clinging to life. That, however, was not for him to dwell upon. Thanadir Feredîrion was Steward to his King and determined to discharge his duty whatever the cost. Galion, Seneschal to Oropher and his Commander, watched nearby with thinly veiled nervousness – Thanadir did not approve of that concerning Galion; a Seneschal should not reveal so much of his own emotion when it mattered greatly to refrain.

In the distance to the east the banners of the Noldorin High King they called ‘Gil-galad’  caught high in the breeze. Thanadir could discern the heraldry, many white stars on a field of darker blue, and he wondered what the Noldor were like. Oh, he had heard enough about them. Kinslayers, destroyers of beloved Doriath, as close to evil as could be housed in Elven form – but deep inside of himself he doubted that prejudice. His father and mother had told him of the Valar, and Eru who created all of their kind. Oropher was not one to abide counterarguments and certainly not from him, so it hardly was a topic for discussion. No, the Steward’s rank and his position depended on a closed mouth and his ascendant usefulness, and he was not about to jeopardize his hard-won status on account of political bickering. Especially when, for all he knew, Oropher could be right. Definitely, though, he could guess that whatever the Elves under Gil-galad meant to do, Oropher would not cooperate. 

Neither would Amdir. Turning his head now to the west, he easily identified the other Elvenking by his white hair bound in a plain circle of gold. Tall, haughty, and infinitely convinced of his own superiority, Amdir more than anyone had influenced Oropher to bring them to this place – so Thanadir believed. Why would Amdir not? His own numbers in Lórien were inadequate; anyone could see that. And yet an Elf was worth ten orcs any day of the lunar cycle, so there was always the possibility of victory. Plus, the enemy was stupid. And vile. If anything deserved to be stamped out, it was them. The least of their warriors comprehended that these vermin meant to spread, and that if not destroyed here in their own nest they would in time be setting fire to the eaves of their forest homes.

Thranduil stood next to his sire calm and unperturbed, but Thanadir recognized the simmering contempt that lurked beneath. He knew what few others did – the Prince hated his father, who had heaped abuse on his son during the years of his childhood. The beatings had stopped long ago, for Thranduil had grown taller and more powerfully built than his sire. For the sake of the Realm and the Prince himself, Oropher’s unpalatable secret was one carefully guarded by the few who knew. Theirs was yet a young Kingdom, and nobody had the desire to see their world return to what it once had been – Elves that lived barely better than in squalid poverty. Oropher had united them, elevated them, proving a capable and dedicated King to everyone but his own flesh and blood. The Steward’s lips pressed together in thin disapproval at the memory of this unseemliness, then his attention diverted to a figure that had drawn his repeated notice. 

The warrior was small, too small. A silver braid ran down his back, where something between a short sword and a long knife was sheathed in a leather harness. He must belong to Amdir’s forces from Lórien, for no one of that stature served amidst their ranks. At least, none he had ever seen, and it was his business to see everything. Not so far away he caught the eye of Thalion, who had also noticed the wiry figure darting to and fro. Exchanging a brief smile, they both shrugged. Sometimes one had to appreciate humor where one could find it, especially in places like this.

Amdir waited, calculating. He too had seen the strange little Elf, and wondered how desperate Oropher was to have a child serving amidst his ranks – it was hardly his concern, though, if whoever he was could wield a blade.

Bullshit. This is absolute bullshit. I don't know who I’m meant to complain to, but I’m complaining to someone, dammit. 

Where she was, or why she was here, were things not yet known to her. She wasn’t sure why she’d nabbed the armor off some poor dead page, but nab it she had — it was too big, but not enough so to really slow her down, and she was smart enough to figure that a helmet was a good idea. At least she didn't feel as absolutely awful as she had when she’d gone to sleep. Small mercies.

Just who these people were was also an unknown — to a one, they seemed pretty in a sort of androgynous way, and unfortunately all of them were at least a solid foot taller than she was. It meant that she could see fuck-all on her own, but peering through someone else’s eyes did not violate her self-imposed rules about the use — or lack thereof — of her telepathy. It was passive observation only; she didn't actually read anything at all.

Her eyes alighted on a large group of the Mordor-orcs. Oh, good Jesus, what in mother fuck are those things? ‘Ugly as the arse-end of a dog with diarrhea’ was a pretty fair description, and she wondered just why her mind had coughed them up.

She drew her sword, although she wasn’t sure why. Lorna knew little about bladed weapons, and what she did know all involved smaller knives. If she tried to use it, she’d like as not just stab herself, but she vaguely thought that she ought to try to look the part...the part of whatever this even was. Telekinesis was a much better bet.

To the left, the pretty bunch wore heavy metal armor. Solid. They were organized, too, into little formations. Other pretty lads seemed to be in actual charge of the little formations, like they knew what the fuck they were actually about. Her lot were apparently another story. They had on a bunch of shoe leather that didn’t look like it could stop a flying spitwad and for all they had swords and bows, it was obvious enough that half of them had their thumbs up their arses scared and the other half just looked...clueless. Why the hell couldn’t I be with that lot? Maybe her brain just couldn’t cough up what it would be like to wear proper, heavy, useful armor.

The leaders had to be the white-haired ones that wore little tiaras or whatever. Or maybe two of them were actually pale blond; this entire place washed the color out of everything. Three of them, or was it four? And why did two of them have dark eyebrows? Melanin doesn’t work that way, mate. Mairead would call bullshit.

For whatever reason, she was unable to just stand still and wait for...whatever. She ooched her way through the ranks, and at least managed to avoid treading on anyone’s feet as she did so. She paused only when she reached the group in the decent, different armor. Maybe one of this lot would actually say something, so she’d have even half a clue what was meant to be going on here.

“You!” Elrond called, indicating to their guard to make way for what be believed was a ‘him.’ “You are messenger to Amdir? Oropher?”

For no reason she could even begin to fathom, she actually went along with it. “Amdir,” she said. With just that one word, surely her accent didn't sound too horribly out-of-place.

For a moment Elrond frowned at the barely intelligible word, but then nodded. If only because Amdir had one less syllable than Oropher, he made out the name. “Tell your King to wait for our charge! It will be safest. Our armor is sturdier but your forces are able to move with greater speed. Let us drive a wedge into their number, and you shall kill what scatters. Go now! Hurry!”

Hurry Lorna did. She didn't know how she knew just which one was Amdir, but she made a beeline for him. Another name coughed itself up into her brain — that of the man she’d just spoken to. “Er, Lord Elrond told me to say to wait until his army charged since they’ve got better armor, but you’re faster.”

Amdir frowned mightily in the face of the near-gibberish (perhaps the little ellon had a speech impediment?), turning his face to Amroth his son. “The Noldor say ‘Wait! They are faster!’ Is that what you heard him say?”

Amroth, not being an idiot (except he totally was an idiot), told his father what he wanted to hear, and that was almost always Agreement. “Arrogant bastards! Of course they would believe they are faster, trussed up in their steel suits. Stupid Noldor.”

“Get over there, and tell Oropher how we were just insulted!” Amdir shouted at his son, who a second later raced away before Lorna could utter a word. “Dismissed!” the King then told Lorna imperiously.

For whatever reason, Lorna didn't kick him for sounding so insulting. Instead, go she did, though she had no idea where she was actually meant to go — not until she spotted  Amroth looking for all the world like he was having a wee in one of the sad little bushes along the way (and taking his sweet time about it) and arrived first to the man who she somehow knew to be called Oropher. “Er, I’ve been sent to tell you the Noldor insulted us,” she said. “Something about them being faster even though they’re in armor, and it means we ought to wait?” That wasn’t what she’d heard at all, but whatever. It was easier to go with it, at least for now.

Thranduil’s blue eyes riveted on her with an uncomfortable intensity. Why did he feel as though he knew this ellon...who was not an ellon, he somehow also understood though he could not fathom how. What are you doing here? he sent into her mind.

Lorna blinked, because this was new. Then again, he had the pale eyes of a natural-born telepath...ish. His were a touch more blue than she’d ever seen on a natural-born. Your guess is as good as mine. Guess I’m a messenger.

Get out of here. This place can only bring you death, and you are not one of us. You are not– 

“Intolerable!” Oropher roared, seeing Amdir’s own high dudgeon. He raised his sword as a signal, to see Amdir mirror his movement.

“Father, we–” Thranduil began but it was too late.

“CHARGE!” Oropher bellowed as he rushed forward, leaving Thranduil, Galion, Thanadir and Thalion no choice but to lead the Elves on. 

Thanadir would find a way, discreetly, to keep near the Prince. The Prince who hauled up the strange tiny Elf to sit on his shoulders as he ran off into the mass of Orcs. For a moment Thanadir’s lips parted, but then the business of staying alive occupied all of his attention. If Fate smiled upon him, later on he would have time to find out what on Arda this was about.

Lorna hadn't expected that at all, so it took her a moment to actually center herself, but this...she knew this. She’d done this, albeit on an ice field — the fact that she’d died there could be conveniently ignored.

She hadn't planned on using any sort of battle-cry — it seemed, at least in the abstract, to be a waste of breath. Evidently something in her disagreed, because from her throat, at as great a volume she could produce, came, “LEEEEEEROY JENNNNNKINS!”

The Woodland Realm paused for just a moment, staring at the strange little one perched atop the Prince’s shoulders. For those that lived, later on none of them would really understand why they repeated it, but repeat it they did. “LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEROY JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNKIIIIIINS!” they echoed enthusiastically, leaving Amdir’s Elves to yell it yet again (for it felt like they were missing out on something). Amroth just shook his head and hoped that when all this mess was over with he could finally succeed in his desire to wed Nimrodel.

Somehow, Lorna didn't fall victim to the laughter that rose within her, though Christ knew she might well later, when there was actually time. Her vantage point — and the fact that her mysterious ally was at the head of the charge — meant she didn't need to worry about friendly fire when she loosed her telekinesis like the fist of a very pissed-off god. (The fact that she actually knew what a pissed-off god looked like was also something that ought to be ignored right now.) Adrenaline sang and surged in her veins as the front rank of their hideous opponents wound up so much shredded goo. Their armor made tearing them to pieces with a thought, like she’d done the Angel’s minions too difficult to be worth it, but if Von Rached had taught her anything, it was that a person could squeeze just as easily as they could rip. The minds of these nasty gobshites stood out like beacons — it was a very handy way to tell her exactly where to find an individual target.

Yeah, for now. Yes, for now, and the immediate moment was all she could afford to focus on. Distraction in the middle of a battle was a great way to get killed — or, in this case, risk taking out anyone on her own side.

Are you one of the Maiar? Thranduil asked, curious. His sword sang easily as they cut through the waves of the enemy...and here, he thought he was doing her a favor when it was so apparently the other way around.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I am anymore. She’d survived things nobody ought to, right up until she really, really hadn't, and it was not by her own hand that she’d returned to the world of the living. Shit, arrows. Lorna never had really learned to both attack and defend at the same time — she simply didn't have enough practice, which meant that her head-squishing had to pause when she threw up an invisible barrier. One or two arrows got through before she could help it, but sue her. There was a reason she’d wound up dead in the Arctic.

Squish. Squish. Squish. Shit, more arrows. Once again she had to throw everything she had at the arrows, until she had the bright idea to hunt for the minds of the archers. SQUISH.

Her helmet was almost doing her more harm than good — it was too big, and it fucked up her peripheral vision in the one eye that even had any to begin with. Off it went, and she hoped it didn't hit whoever was behind them.

The battle fanned out, spreading them out more, and more...but because of the Wood-Elves’ impatience the still closely grouped Noldor (that had only just now marched into the fray, once the mass of Orcs shifted themselves toward the Wood-Elves and provided them with something to flank) were too far away to provide meaningful aid to their floundering Woodland kindred. Their armor and training were simply too inadequate, and they were being picked apart…

Shit shit SHIT. Lorna couldn’t hope to spread her telekinesis out far enough to protect everybody as they moved away — more and more arrows found their way through on either side, and she was so focused on even attempting to maintain what she had left that any thought of offense was no longer to be considered.

Oh, no… Thanadir blanched. Thus far he personally had remained unscathed but as he looked on from too great a distance, he saw Oropher fall. Where in this miserable sewer was Galion, who ought to have been fighting within meters of their King? What did it matter, he was not to be seen. Slashing at the sporadic arrow with his blade, Thanadir raced to confirm the worst. Oropher’s unseeing eyes stared. The side of his face and torso had been trampled into a puddle at the bottom of a natural depression in the terrain. An evilly serrated weapon still protruded from the King’s chest, gore glistening on its tip. Thanadir fought off panic and his eyes fell on the Prince. There was one chance, and one chance only. Now his feet raced of their own accord, and with strength he did not know he possessed he propelled Thranduil to where his father lay – blessedly not far off and slightly sheltered from the whirr of arrows still being exchanged by both sides.

Thanadir was wise enough not to speak anything so foolish as ‘I am sorry’ to Thranduil, but gave him a moment to absorb.

“He is dead,” Thranduil intoned, both shock and joy lacing through his voice...for no one but this stranger and Thanadir were near to hear him.

“Yes,” Thanadir agreed, and that was when he took Thranduil’s hand in an iron grip and knelt before him, holding his gaze. “I pledge to serve you, Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm of Eryn Galen. I shall obey your laws and commands, honor you in my heart, accept your justice for disobedience and continue subject to your rule, forsaking all other authority. I freely offer myself and vow my fealty until death takes me.”

Frozen, Thranduil looked down at Thanadir, the color draining from his face. In his peripheral vision the battle raged. Their people were being butchered like sheep. He did not want this and yet he equally knew he had no other choice with which he could live. He swallowed hard. “I vow to serve as your king, Thanadir Feredîrion. There is more I shall promise you but if we do not survive it will mean little. Hear my first command, rally our people to me!” Only then did he recall the presence of his little companion atop his shoulders, but Thanadir’s shout of summoning (TO THE KING! TO THE KING!) drowned out any attempt at conversation. No matter. He brandished his sword again and clapped her leg gently for their fight was not yet over.

Lorna had somehow managed to not openly gape at the scene she’d just witnessed, but it was so unlike anything her dreaming mind was ever likely to produce that she came close enough. She managed to at least maintain her shield around them, but her energy was flagging fast, and the spread of it was shortening. Apparently she hadn't lived long enough in the Arctic to wear out, but what the hell was going to happen if it did now?

In the end, it was not actually an arrow that felled her. No, it was a chunk of rock the size of her fist, that crashed into her skull with such force that she didn't stand a chance. In her last confused moments of life, she said, Oh, not again —

Thranduil felt her tumble from his shoulders at the same time a large troll had thundered far too near. He did not understand what had happened but once it lay dead so did she...and he had not even asked her name. For a few seconds, he found himself clear of danger. He bent down, tenderly taking her hand. A little golden band with a strange design decorated one finger, and he could not say why he freed it except that he wanted something by which to remember her with a ferocity he had never before experienced. He tried...no, wait – her body weighed nothing, and Oropher lay but a few meters’ hence. Thranduil placed her next to his worthless father. 

“Thranduil!” Thanadir barked, not understanding what had distracted him.

“She is to be buried with honor!” Thranduil pointed at the body. 

“When we survive she shall be, Lord!” Thanadir fired back, frustrated.

Staring, Thranduil nodded. “Keep this!” He ordered Thanadir, for the little ring could not fit on any of his fingers even had they not been gloved.

Stifling a sigh, Thanadir slipped the band onto his littlest finger, where it somehow lodged securely past the first joint, Valar be praised. This seemed to mollify the King, who now refocused on gathering their number into a safe retreat. Far too late for them, he saw bitterly, the Noldor were steadily mowing down the enemy which were all but routed...but he had his duty and could not dwell on their ruin.

Later on, Thanadir and Galion (who to be fair had been shot in the leg but still insisted on helping Thanadir tally their dead) worked at their sad task, and Thranduil ate his waybread near the corpses of this woman (or Maia? for she lacked their pointed ears and yet no mortal could display the powers she had demonstrated in battle). He had salvaged a thin leather cord, and the little ring hung now under his tunic – he still could not say why. “You are asleep but you shall awaken, though not here,” he told her. “I am sorry not to have known you, for you fought well. I will name you Lorniel, because you will remain asleep until the Gods decree otherwise. I shall pray for you.”

*****

Very vast were those caverns that they made stretching even down under the Shadowy Seas, and they are full of gloom and filled with echoes, and all that deep abode is known to Gods and Elves as Mandos. There in a sable hall sat Vefántur, and he called that hall with his own name Vê...Thither in after days fared the Elves of all the clans who were by illhap slain with weapons or die of grief for those that were slain – and only so might the Eldar die, and then it was only for a while. There Mandos spake their doom, and there they waited in the darkness, dreaming of their past deeds, until such time as he appointed when they might again be born into their children, and go forth to laugh and sing again.

The hall that she [Vê Fui] loved best was one yet wider and more dark than Vê, and she too named it with her own name, calling it Fui...Thither came the sons of Men to hear their doom, and thither are they brought by all the multitude of ills that Melko’s evil music set within the world. Slaughters and fires, hungers and mishaps, diseases and blows dealt in the dark, cruelty and bitter cold and anguish and their own folly bring them here; and Fui reads their hearts. Some she keeps in Mandos beneath the mountains and some she drives forth beyond the hills...Some too, and these are many, she sends aboard the black ship Mornië, who lieth ever and anon in a dark harbour of the North awaiting those times when the sad pomp winds to the beach down slow rugged paths from Mandos.

Then, when she is laden, of her own accord she spreads her sable sails and before a slow wind coasts down those shores. Then do all aboard as they come South cast looks of utter longing and regret to that low place amid the hills where Valinor may just be glimpsed upon the far off plain; and that opening is nigh Taniquetil where is the strand of Eldamar. No more do they ever see of that bright place, but norne away dwell after on the wide plains of Arvalin. There do they wander in the dusk, camping as they may, yet are they not utterly without song, and they can see the stars, and wait in patience until the Great End come.

Book of Lost Tales: Part 1 pp 77-78.

When Lorna woke, she wasn’t even sure she was awake at first, because her surroundings were so very much different than that battlefield. Vast, dark, a little chilly…

“What the fuck is this bullshit?” she asked, as she rose. “Where’s the pale forest? I didn't die in battle for this shit.” She knew how death worked — she’d experienced it firsthand — so what the hell had gone wrong this time? What even was this?

There was only one light source inside this oversized coffin, a weird cauldron-thingy with some glowy shit inside of it. Liquid, or whatever. The rest of the place looked like a thousand Goths went off their antidepressants and had a decorating party. There was black, and sable, and jet black, and raven black, and oh look! some gloom for good measure. Jesus fuck she needed a drink. Wait. Something over there was decidedly not black because, hair. Those two elves. King elves. Elf-kings, whatever the fuck. They’d started the whole shitshow, the gombeens, and she was of more than half a mind to tell them what she thought about that. She was incredibly relieved to see that Thranduil, the brand-new Elf-king, had not actually landed here — hopefully it meant he was still alive.

“Well done,” she groused. “Elrond says to wait, so what did you do? Rush on in like Leeroy bloody Jenkins, and now here we all are. Happy?”

“They were Noldor!” Oropher fumed. “As if we were going to listen to them!”

“Yeah? Well let me point something out, mate. They’re alive and you two gobshites are...the fuck is this place, anyway?”

“Who is Leeroy bloody Jenkins?” Amdir wanted to know. He knew he should have asked a few more questions there, given he could understand about every third word and… “You are female!”

“You just now worked that out?” she asked, incredulous. Thranduil had spotted her as female right off. “Leeroy bloody Jenkins is...is you two! You know, World’v Warcraft? He rushed in full-speed-ahead with no plan, and got himself and the rest’v his party killed because’v it.”

“It’s not my fault!” Amdir protested.

Lorna stared, because you could not make this shit up. This eejit really was Leeroy, complete with dialogue.

“YOU,” said a vast baritone that somehow drew them before a dark and brooding presence. “Amdir. Oropher. Do you see that group? Over there?” Vefántur pointed a long and close to skeletal finger .

“Our people, yes,” sniffed Amdir. “Or at least they used to be.”

“Do you have any idea how much I dislike this much dooming all at once? I have witnessed every result of the evils of Melkor, and this is about the worst showing for Elvenkind I have ever seen in which balrogs were not involved. Were there balrogs?” Vefántur bent over a little to peer at them out of creepy black eyes that bordered on arachnid, somehow. Maybe it was that they had no pupils, or sclera. Just...black. Then again considering the decor...

Oropher shook his head. “No. No balrogs. But there were really big trolls.”

“And Noldor!” Amdir pointed out emphatically.

“The same Noldor that could have kept you from losing two-thirds of your people? Those Noldor?” Vefántur felt distinctly annoyed.

Lorna stared at all this. Oh good Jesus… She was, all things considered, rather glad she was not the focus of this...person’s...attention.

“Well it was her fault,” Amdir retorted, always happy to shift blame. “Her words are spoken through a mouthful of marbles! Who could possibly understand that?”

Vefantur sighed. “So you admit you made a critical tactical decision based on words you knew you did not understand?”

“Oh, it was worse than that.” Lorna spoke before she even thought. “He understood me well enough to know what I meant, and decided to do the exact bloody opposite because he thought it was an insult instead’v, you know, common sense to let the people with actual armor go in front. I mean, I don't know what personal history’s going on there, but there’s stubbornness and then there’s outright stupidity. At least his son was smart enough to call for a retreat once he’d copped it.” She pointed an accusing finger at Oropher.

Something in her words seemed to sting Oropher, who visibly grimaced.

“Do we not get to go off now? Dream of our deeds or something, until we are reborn?” Amdir inquired arrogantly.

“Yes. You do. And with that attitude, you may wait until all of them,” he jabbed a finger over at the multitudes of frightened and confused elves that huddled close together, seeking reassurance from each other in this awful place, “are reborn first. Hm. Let me see. Oops, technical problem. They were the fathers that could have returned home to their wives, so that we could get this show on the road. But they are here.”

“Looks like someone has a problem,” Amdir said airily. “Does someone need a King? Kings solve problems, you know.”

“Will you shut up?” Oropher finally turned on his cohort. “I want to know if we are always reborn as children. Do we ever just...go back?”

“Oh, it occurs to you only now that the son you mistreated might have been the son you lost, reborn?” Vefantur asked icily. “Here is my doom for you – you will always have to wonder, for one cruelty deserves another. Get out of my sight, both of you.” A strange darkness descended (what else was it going to be in this place, butterflies and sunshine?) and into it the pair vanished, causing the God to turn his attention to…Lorna

“You are in the wrong place. Did you know that? For you are not an Elf. Yet nor are you precisely of the race of Men, either.” He tilted his head. “I do not know where you belong save that it is not here. Go and see my wife.” 

In a blink Lorna stood near a black chair (seriously, what did these people have against color?) with a pathetic excuse for a fire in a brazier. Was this like, Limerick during the 1960s when the poor kids ran near the train tracks all day hunting for any spilled lump of coal to bring home by which to heat a pot of tea? “Bat wings for a ceiling, huh?” Lorna asked the woman who sat at this cheerful station. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of PETA? And see, I’m not meant to be here either. I’ve done this before — there’s a pale forest somewhere. I ought to’ve wound up there, and I don't know why I didn't.”

The...whoever she was Goddess...seemed disinclined to engage in conversation. Vê Fui spoke only one word to Lorna: “Mornië.”  And she pointed toward an open doorway that at least led the hell out of this cheerless dump. Walk through it Lorna did, and the largest and oddest frog she had ever laid eyes upon hopped after her the moment she passed through the portal into daylight, indignantly squeaking “EEEEEEEEE!” when it initially was overlooked.

Lorna stared at it, and it at her. She’d seen the video of the desert rain frog, the squeaky little nugget that had made the rounds on the Internet. This one was far, far larger — almost the size of a toad — and it blinked beady little frog eyes at her.

A small girl — perhaps five years old, gap-toothed and tow-haired — scurried across the deck. “Fëanor always says hi to new people,” she said, as she carefully picked up the frog. It sat on her shoulder, and squeaked.

“Your frog’s name is Fëanor?” Lorna asked. She’d swear she heard or read the name somewhere, but then, this was a dream. People thought they knew all sorts of shit in dreams that made no sense in the waking world.

“Yep. He needs somebody to kiss him so he can be a prince again. Well, actually he was a king, but you know.” The child’s eyes, Lorna noticed, did not match, and quite suddenly she actually recognized the kid: Marty. Sharley’s Marty, who in the real world was also very dead — not that it had slowed her down.

“Why haven’t you kissed him?” she asked. Logic. Even in dreams, it could exist.

“Because I’m not a grown-up, silly. Kids don't kiss people.”

Lorna was pretty sure there was a fairly large flaw in that logic, but by now she was far too weirded out to try to parse it out. This was one of the most linear dreams she’d ever had in her entire life, and she wished it could be a more pleasant one. “Well, I’m not kissing him. I’m married.”

The frog somehow contrived to look even crankier, which just made it even more adorable. “Eeeeeeeee!” If a frog could wail the depths of desperation and sorrow, this one just had.

Lorna rolled her eyes. Whatever, this dream probably couldn’t get any weirder anyway. On impulse, she kissed the amphibian, and immediately wiped her mouth. Blech. People actually ate frogs? Like, for fun?

The sudden appearance of a regally dressed Elf lying in a fetal position now wholly blocked the pathway. He trembled though it was not cold, trying to recover from his long confinement in that form. Lorna and Marty looked at each other nervously thinking it best to...give the lad a moment. After what seemed like a good five minutes, he incrementally began to stretch his legs. Doing so brought agony, and hadn’t the sadistic bastard in that black cavern counted on it? But to straighten his limbs again meant to walk, and walking meant putting more distance between himself and this place. Fearfully, he shot a glance at where the doorway had been – for he had never been meant to achieve freedom. That much he was sure of, and it is why he hoped that his release might not have attracted the attention of the hideous pair beneath the earth. 

“I have to get away from here. Please. Down the path. Vefántur – it was his idea of a punishment for me. I angered him and he forced me into that shape, then his wife left me in the care of a child who would never release me – though she knew how. I think she was somehow not allowed. She asked every single man and woman coming down this path to kiss me and none would. You are the first to do this simple thing and I am more grateful than you can know.”

Lorna honestly had not expected a damn thing to come of her impulse, and it was really, really fortunate it was apparently impossible to actually piss one’s pants in a dream. Good bloody Jesus. Marty seemed far more sanguine, and Lorna wondered just what the hell went on in this place.

“Er, I was actually planning on trying to get out’v here anyway,” Lorna said. “See, I know where this one and I are meant to be, and it’s not here.” She ruffled Marty’s hair.

“The ship’s supposed to stay here, though” Marty said. “Until it’s full, and then I think it sails somewhere and we all get to be sad until the end of the world.”

Lorna blinked down at her, before raising her eyes back to the Elf. “That make any sense to you? Because I’m totally at sea here. Except not literally, apparently.”

Fëanor’s face transformed with a triumphant smile to hear he might have help – but only for a moment. Just a flicker. Goals did not equal their fulfilment; a bitter lesson already learned. “If you had that ship,” he asked softly, “would you take me with you? To wherever you are meant to be? Because this, all this, is wrong. It is a perversion. And I would give much to escape this place. I am Elven – I should not be here with the race of Men.” His gaze diverted down the path, to where the ghastly and somber vessel awaited. “And yet here I am, thanks to you. Maybe you were meant to find me, so we might work together.”

“If I had — mate, can you actually sail this thing?” Lorna asked. Her knowledge of tall ships was limited to what she’d gleaned from Master and Commander and assorted Pirates of the Caribbean movies — which was to say, not much at all. Jary’s airships, though they looked similar, were not the same thing at all. For one thing they were, well, air ships. “Because if you can, I’ll help you mutiny against...whoever there even is. Who else is on this ship?”

“Oh, you know,” Marty said. “People. Mister Fëanor, what are you, if you’re not a human? What’s Elven?”

“Him,” Lorna said. “I met a load’v you before I died. Some of you were grand, but a few were gobshites, and they’re why I’m here to begin with.” She wanted to ask why the hell he’d been turned into a frog, except with those gods she’d seen, there was a strong chance the answer was something like ‘for shits and giggles.’

“I...when Elves die they never go anywhere, except apparently to that particular brand of hell,” he jerked his thumb backwards. “I am supposed to be able to be born again but apparently if you make enough statements that are frowned upon in this establishment they can change their minds. I look the same as you but my ears have points and I am allegedly immortal but if this is immortality the Gods can…” He stopped himself abruptly, furtively glancing at the hillside. “I am not sure it is safe to speak openly since that did not work out so well for me. Before, before I died...I was good at making things. Building things and fixing things. I know how to sail a ship. But I have watched that ship. When there are enough dead aboard and the wind is right it simply spreads its sails like a bird and takes them away though I know not to where.” Then, much quieter, “I also know that a ship is a ship and can be forced to sail where those aboard will it.”

“Jesus, you Elves got shafted, if that’s where you're really meant to go,” Lorna said. While she didn't know what lay beyond the pale forest — she’d never got that far — she strongly doubted it was anything like that.

She glanced up at the mast and...spars? The things that had furled sails on them, anyway. Time to find out if her Gift still worked in this afterlife. It did in the forest, but that didn't necessarily mean much. I can’t call up wind, she said. That’s not how my Gift works, but I’m real good at moving things with my mind. If I could get us going, could you steer? Because the alternative is going out to hunt for more dead people, and I don't want to risk drawing attention to ourselves. No, she had never tried to move something she was actually on before, but surely it could be done. Now that she was dead, all the weariness had fallen away from her; she even had two functioning eyes, which was a distinct plus.

“Look, though,” Fëanor frowned, as he moved slowly and painfully down the path. “It is on a slipway of sorts. As good as a fish out of water, just now. His long-cramped legs were very slow to cooperate and he was very tall. In fact he towered over… “Pardon me but I do not know your name?”

“Jesus that’s rude’v me,” she said. “My name’s Lorna — this little one’s Marty. I actually know her in...life?” For some reason, the words ‘the real world’ refused to be spoken. “And that slipway...how long is it, d’you know?” Perhaps she could sort of...shove the shore away, and drop the ship down into the water? It was huge, sure, and in life she’d have struggled, but the great thing about being dead was that words like ‘tired’ didn't apply.

Fëanor stared at Marty. “When I was the frog I could never keep count of how many went to the ship. Do you know how full it is? How many are aboard?”

It took Marty a moment, and quite a bit of counting on her fingers. “I think there’s forty-something,” she said at last. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell because people can turn grey and faded and it’s hard to tell them apart. I dunno how many the ship needs before it goes anywhere, though.”

“We are both dead and yet we are somehow solid enough. There are heavy lines, ropes, on that deck and some that lay outside the vessel. What do you think it would need to drag it into the water? I fear that if it only moves by wind against the unyielding bottom it will simply break the masts.” Calculation and scheming, not to mention intent, filled Fëanor’s silvery eyes.

“I could theoretically get it into the water on my own,” Lorna said slowly, “but I’m worried about what it might do to the structural integrity’v the ship if I did. Am I right in guessing you’re even stronger than you look?” Fëanor did not share the same androgynous look as the other Elves she’d seen — he wasn’t just a giant, he was more powerfully built in general than the others.

“I am indeed strong. But not strong enough to move that vessel.” He hobbled along, forcing motion into his legs. “Curse that witch,” he breathed, though he did not afford it much volume. At last they came alongside, which conveniently thanks to how Mornië was moored had them at the same height as the deck. Lorna was about to forge on ahead, but Fëanor held her back. “Wait. I do not trust...this. Let us make certain there is no enchantment that will imprison us once aboard.”

“Ahoy, aboard, ahoy on-deck!” he spoke in a louder voice.

Men and women turned to stare at him. Some seemed too despondent to care, but others came to the rail. “Aye?” One of the men spoke back.

“Come ashore. We wish to speak with you. We have an idea.” Fëanor told him.

“What kind of idea?” A woman said suspiciously.

The kind that might get us all out’v here, Lorna said in thought to the group at large. She had no idea who might be listening, or how closely. If we can get this ship in the water, Fëanor here knows how to sail it, and I can keep it moving. She hoped so, anyway. Given that the alternative was doing nothing until the ship took itself Christ only knew where, she was just going to go ahead and pretend. 

“And being here sucks,” Marty added. She was helping. Honest.

“So come ashore?” Fëanor asked again.

“We’re not s’posed to,” the man answered. “We’re supposed to stay aboard.”

“You do realize that the one who placed you here could care less about you as a person, is probably sending you someplace that will make this ship appear to be a palace by comparison, and this represents your last chance to escape? Or does rotting somewhere ugly until the end of time have some kind of appeal to you?” Fëanor asked, aggravated.

“He’s not wrong,” Lorna added. “I mean, the place I just came from – bat wings all over the ceiling? Does that sound like the kind’v stability on which you want to stake your future?”

Most aboard glanced uneasily at each other. She had a point. “Where else is there?”

“There’s — hang on, it’s easier if I show you.” Eloquent Lorna was not, but when you had telepathy, eloquence was unnecessary.

She had never tried to take quite this many people into her mind — at least, not while everybody involved was sober. Maybe she wouldn’t get everyone, but hopefully she’d get enough to get her point across.

Memory of this place remained very sharp — it ought to have, given she hadn't been here that long ago. Yes, the sky was black, but the trees around them, and the whispering grasses beneath their feet, were a lovely, luminous white. It was silent, but not oppressively so, and it was so nice and warm — so very unlike the flat, dead chill of the world outside her mind.

“There’s a river here, too,” she said, as she surveyed them all, one by one. “I mean, it got dammed at one point, but it’s not now. This is where we’re supposed to go when we die — it’s the space between life and whatever comes after. I’ve met somebody who came from the After, and I can’t imagine it’s a bad thing. Not like wherever the fuck this thing’s likely to go.”

“Aunt Lorna oughtta know,” Marty added. “She died once already, but she got booted back to life ’cause Von Arsecrack managed to be an Orpheus who wasn’t a total failure fuckup.”

Lorna looked down at the little girl, and wondered where on Earth she’d got that idea. If it was Sharley’s voices, they were in for it. “Anyway. Here. Yeah. Fëanor, I don't know where you’d go once got here, but hell, even just staying here would be better than the alternative, if you had to.”

“Well?” Fëanor asked. “I do not mean to be pushy, except I do. You see, I am an Elf, and I am not actually meant to be here. Why am I here, you may ask yourselves? The lovely lady up there that sent you all aboard this black hulk has a husband. He is the one who pronounces Doom upon my people. Not being known for my conservatism nor my ability to quash my opinionated nature, I told Vefántur what I thought of several things, and I was forced into the shape of a frog and left in the care of a child. Nothing personal, Marty. I know you did your best.”

Again, uneasy glances were exchanged. “They can change you into animals?”

“That is my point exactly,” the Elf said, exasperated. “They have too much power and they are not good nor kind nor merciful. We need to get out of here.”

“I tried,” Marty said.

Lorna shook her head, because oh, good grief. “And we can actually get out if you lot come ashore and help move this thing into the water. I know telling you to look alive is in kind’v poor taste, but...come on. You don't really want to get turned into a newt and not get better until somebody’s mad enough to kiss you, I’m sure.”

“Well, okay.”

Bless humans, but they were grand at being sheep. As soon as one man moved, a few others followed and came ashore. The rest would either wind up helping or shamed.

She eyed the lines. Her sister was a big Les Miserables fan, and as a result, Lorna knew all the songs even though she’d only seen the actual production once. She’d seen bits of the movie, too, so of course a song popped into her head. “I’ve even got a nice shanty we can sing.”

Fëanor stiffly jumped into the water that did not reach his knees, moving well ahead to shoulder one of the lines in the hopes that it would encourage others to form up behind him. He sighed, a little. Their enthusiasm for this endeavor seemed far too limited to succeed, and yet his new, er, compatriot seemed to have some motivational skills of her own.  “Sing!” Fëanor called out. “Sing a Song!”

“Make it simple, to last your whole life long!” Marty intoned cheerfully. (Unfortunately, nobody got it but Lorna, who rolled her eyes.)

“All right, you lot!” Lorna said, and hopped after him. Marty followed her in turn, and in dribs and drabs they made their way to the lines. “You all repeat after me:

“Look down, look down, 

Don't look ’em in the eye

Look down, look down, 

You’re here until you die.”

It took a moment, as the slightly bewildered crowd eyed her and then each other, but eventually they did it — more or less in tune, even.

“But we’re already dead,” one of the women frowned.

“Just bloody pull, will you?” another far more displeased woman called out.

“Okay, everybody, pull!” Marty cried. She tried her best, at least, but she was tiny.

Lorna was more than happy to cheat a bit, and shove her line along with some telekinetic help. 

“The sun is strong,

It’s hot as hell below,”

Marty didn't miss a beat.

“Look down, look down

There’s twenty years to go. 

“Except not really, it’s just the song. Chorus, guys!”

Lorna very nearly laughed when they all obliged her, more or less.

“I’ve done no wrong

Sweet Jesus hear my prayer!”

Again, Marty’s high, childish voice:

“Look down, look down,

Sweet Jesus doesn’t care.”

With a groan and a shudder, Mornië moved. Fëanor felt it. “IT IS WORKING!” he roared. “KEEP GOING!!”

They took up the chorus with far more excitement:

“Look down, look down, 

Don't look ’em in the eye

Look down, look down, 

You’re here until you die.”

A few of the women still tittered at the last verse but they were getting a little better about it. And what mattered most of all was, the dark hulk was moving. Water was already lapping at the bow and a little beyond.

Lorna’s voice rang out again,

“I know she’ll wait, 

I know that she’ll be true.”

Marty, almost gleeful: 

“Look down, look down, 

They’ve all forgotten you.”

Bit by bit, the wretched ship shifted, while the rest of their crew actually managed to reach perfect harmony on the next refrain.

Lorna glanced upward, because she had no idea who or what might be watching — but then, if anything was, it had to be rather confused.

“When I get free, 

You won’t see me here for dust!

Look down, look down

Don't look ’em in the eye,”

Marty, giggling at the sheer irony: 

“How long, oh lord, 

Before you let me die?”

The wretched ship was more than half in the water now — which was just as well, since they were about out of song.

“Everyone aboard!” Fëanor hollered. “We’re in deep enough!” Wincing, he realized that many of the women would lack the strength to climb aboard on their own volition. He was unsure whether he could help more pulling them up by lines or...hm. “Everyone come around to the side of the vessel!” Because of course, there were things to grab onto there. The things that held the things that held up the mast. And with that profound thought, he reminded himself that should he ever find his way to the lands of those living again, he was going to learn the nomenclature of things on a ship. Mostly, he did not wish for any of the men or women to drown in the deepening...depths.

Lorna eyed the mass of people, some of whom were indeed flailing to do as he asked. Some of them looked like they were going to make it just fine, but others — who’d obviously been older when they died, and somehow had not got the memo that bodies were no real limitation when you were dead — looked ready to get left behind.

Well, that couldn’t stand. She caught the stragglers, two and then three at a time, carrying them up onto the deck with as much gentless as she could manage with her telekinesis. The younger and stronger were headed straight for Fëanor and all his...lines. Things. Whatever they were.

Fëanor helped too, and it definitely was for the best that he had moved from the water to the deck to help the last of them aboard. The sound of fabric whipping in the wind caught his attention, and he turned to see the ship unfurling its own sails. Its own black sails, because these poor souls needed further reminder that they were being sent off to some execrable wasteland. “Lorna! Stop it! Do not let those unfold!” He cried to her, heaving the person he was helping onto the deck with far more roughness than intended. Then he dashed off to pull back some of the long, heavy wet lines back onto the vessel.

“On it!” she called. She had never actually furled a sail before, but she’d seen it done on Jary’s ships, and did the best she and her telekinesis could manage. The result was sloppy, but it worked — which was a bloody good thing, because she also had to figure out how to actually shove the damn ship in the right direction. Her best guess was that it would be far easier to push away from land rather than try to haul the ship onward, mainly because she had never actually attempted to move whatever object she sat on, and she wasn't sure it would work. 

Fortunately, once she’d got them out far enough from the shore, the ship seemed to do its own thing. She was more than content to let Fëanor do whatever it was sailors did, and flopped on a coil of rope while it drifted out of the harbor on the tide.

“Being dead the first time was so much more fun,” she grumbled.

“Hey, this is time number three for me,” Marty said. “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re gonna be a zombie, too.”

At this point, Lorna honestly did not care. If she wasn’t going to wake up any time soon, she’d just have to ride this dream out to whatever mad conclusion it came to.

“Good work,” Fëanor praised. “That was all we needed to do. This death-frigate will be carried north by the coastal current...unless it sets its sail, and the prevailing winds will then drive it south to where I imagine that harpy back there wants it to go.” At his words, a shudder moved through the ship’s frame. He frowned. “Can this ship hear me?”

Lorna blinked. She had never actually tried to read the mind of an inanimate object, because it had never occurred to her that an object might possess one. She rested her hand on the deck, and...focused.

“Jesus, there’s...something there,” she said, wide-eyed. “It’s like — it’s not like you or me, it’s more like a child. A child who’s used to doing what it’s told...allanah, you will like it much better if we go somewhere else,” she added, patting the deck. “Think’v it like an adventure, to somewhere a lot prettier than this.” There was probably at least some hope that that would actually work. Probably.

“Look!” Fëanor pointed up, all smiles. The banner, which had previously been a non-color (which should need no mention) had transformed into a pretty blue with gems that sparkled in the emerging sunlight.

“There’s a good girl,” Lorna said. “This is the first day’v the rest’v your life, in a much nicer place and much prettier waters.” Okay, the Styx, from what she’d seen, was purple, but still. It was nicer to look at, because...purple, and the black sand on its banks glittered.

With another little shiver, the deck changed to pale grey, whereupon all those aboard cheered. They floated out of the harbor, crossing the bar, and Fëanor went to the tiller – he was going to make damn sure the prow headed into the north current. When they were aimed the opposite direction of where the vessel usually traveled, he spoke. “I know that ‘anywhere but south’ is an improvement, but...do we know where we are going?” Fëanor asked.

“She knows,” Lorna said, patting the deck again. “I showed her. Where the water runs purple…” Hey, it was a dream. If she wanted to find the goddamn river Styx, she would find the goddamn river Styx.

Sure enough, Mornië plowed onward. When Lorna finally let her unfurl a sail, it was not black — to her utter delight, it was a brilliant rainbow tie-dye. Yeah, this baby knew exactly what to look for, borne ever northward. Cheered, the men and women aboard began to sing hopeful songs. “So, I don't have any plans to cross over to the dead side, when we get there,” Lorna said. “I’m going back to the land’v the bloody living. You coming?”

Fëanor hesitated. “I will not see my family again, will I, if I go with you?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I couldn’t tell you everything that’s out there in the world, but with zombies and ancient gods running about, there might well be Elves. And if you’re alive again, maybe you can go...where exactly would your family be?”

“That is just it...with them. Back there. The Gods. Where I have no hope regardless. If I go with you, though, I could live. Surely that is better?”

“Way better,” Lorna said. “Seriously, fuck those gods. I know better gods. Marty’s mam’s a god...ish. If you live forever, there’s lots’v immortals you could be friends with, and there’s no big wars or anything anymore.”

Fëanor considered. “I will go. Because...it is better than living as a frog. Will there be a place for me? Occupation?”

“You can live anywhere in the world,” Lorna said, resting her head against the mast. “There’s the DMA, they’re sort’v what administers things for the magical humans, but we’ve got some immortals, too. If you’re grand at making things, I know they could find you a job...or you could go travel on one’v the airships, and see if there are any Elves out there. It’s a big, beautiful world, even if it’s still recovering, and there’s a place for everybody. More than one. You’d be spoiled for choice, really.”

“Airships?” An expression of unadulterated greed suffused his fair face. “I think Vê Fui and Vefántur can go...what did you say, fuck them? I do not know what ‘fuck them’ is but I shall try it.”

Lorna laughed so hard she nearly cried. “It’s ‘go fuck themselves’,” she said. “Trust me, you do not actually want to fuck them. My guess is they don't want to fuck each other and that’s why they’re so cranky.”

Fëanor thought very hard. “I do not want to fuck them,” he repeated slowly. “But they should go fuck themselves?” 

Lorna gave a thumbs-up, which he also carefully imitated.

“Because...they fucked everything?” Fëanor guessed.

“Yes. It was fucked.”

“So, fuck it?”

“Fuck it.”

“It’s fucked.”

“You,” Lorna poked him in the chest, “will do just fucking fine.”

“Fuck?”

“Fuck.”

**

The little ship, now that she knew her own mind, found her way up the purple waters of the Styx just fine. She even moored herself correctly, so that all her passengers could disembark on the right side. While this happened, Fëanor found parchment and ink in the lone interior cabin. And he inscribed: “This ship bore us to a place of beauty and freedom. Now, she knows the way. May many follow, and find escape from the dim twilight.” And he affixed it to the mast.

“You’ll have lots and lots’v passengers, my girl, so long as you want to go up and down this river,” Lorna said. “Or just get out and enjoy the warmth. You did good.”

Marty took her hand, and the pair of them led Fëanor to the last place Lorna had stood, the first time she was here. Dreams being dreams, she managed to open the door to Earth just fine without help. “Time to take a step into Life, version 2.0.”

As if understanding, Mornië departed and sailed southward. Not to the harbor whence she came, but much further. Her bright sails and appointments attracted the men and women there, a few of whom came to investigate. They remembered Mornië, and how the ship formerly appeared. And then some went aboard and they read the letter. The bravest among them boarded, and were borne thither. On arrival, one of them wrote below Fëanor’s hand: “It is true. Follow us, here is a place of living.” Thus they came by the hundreds, then the thousands. Dutifully the ship blackened itself to enter the harbor near Fui, lest the Gods see and suspect. But, shrouded in their own darkness, they never did.

**

Lorna woke freezing cold and drenched in sweat. It took a moment for her brain to catch up with events; when it had, she stared at the prism-rainbows that danced on the wall. She was in hospital. Why was she in hospital?

“What,” she said, to nothing in particular, “the fuck was that?” 

There was one of those forehead-thermometor thingys on top of the machine that read her blood-pressure and all that. Grumbling, she rose to take her temperature. Still 103. “That explains a lot. Tea. I need tea.” 

“Ah-ha, look who is awake. Ms. Donovan, you have had us rather worried. Back in bed with you, unless you need the toilet. Your fever has not broken, and you will feel chilled in seconds if you do not. I will gladly bring you tea – and water.” The male nurse stood tall and to anyone with ordinary interest would have been thought an otherworldly degree of handsome. His dark glossy hair had been neatly tied back, keeping it from tangling in the stethoscope worn around his neck. He busied himself recording the information from the monitors onto her chart, and transferred used drinking glasses and whatnot onto his cart.

“Jesus, could you get me a dry shirt while you’re at it?” she asked, and froze, staring at him. Admittedly she didn't know all the personnel in the DMA hospital, but she’d remember someone this striking… In spite of herself, she found her eyes drawn to his ears — or where they would be, were they not covered by his hair. No way… He even sounded just like Fëanor.

She knew that she would look like an absolute lunatic if she actually asked and turned out to be wrong — and she had to be wrong, right? “Mornië,” she said, before she could help it.

His bow lips parted in a smile. “No more a black ship, thanks to you. But we agreed not to discuss it?” Fëanor gently (and very quietly) reminded her. “You have been very ill, Ms. Donovan,” he said (at normal volume) with sympathy. 

Lorna stared at him, wide-eyed. “Right,” she said faintly. “That I have. Fevers make a person say all kinds’v weird things, don't they?”

“They do indeed. One dry shirt, coming up.”

**

---

Chapter End Notes

For those who do not know of Leeroy Jenkins: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLyOj_QD4a4

The song lyrics quoted in the text are from the musical Les Miserables; the opening number entitled "Look Down" in the film inspired the scene to which it belongs. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyqURSNx-KY

Parent works:

The M Universe series by Spamberguesa: https://archiveofourown.org/series/185963

At the Edge of Lasg'len fanfic by AnnEllspethRaven & Spamberguesa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899862/chapters/18045334