AUTHOR'S NOTE
Yeah, I know I said in someone's review that I wouldn't write anything new until I finished "The First Year" fic. But I can't let a flash of inspiration go ignored. That would be a waste. And plus, it keeps the Ringers (or Tolkienites, or Lord of the Rings Obsess-ees, whatever you personally prefer) interested in my work.
DISCLAIMER
I am not Peter Jackson or Tolkien. I am a lowly fan writing lowly fanfiction. Therefore, I do not own Elrond or Isildur. I don't know what I would do if I owned either of them. Probably forget about them and leave them to die. Or the exact opposite of forgetting them and leaving them to die, but they would probably die from that too.
------------------------------------------
CAST IT IN!
"Isildur, hurry! Come! We do not have much time!" I cried.
I can remember the undisguised look in his eyes on that fateful day... reluctance. He knew he needed to do this, but that wretched thing grew too dear to him to simply throw away.
He took a few steps towards me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Every step seemed to last an eternity.
Gesturing wildly, I shouted some words of encouragement. "Cast it in, Isildur! Cast it in! You know you must do this!"
Isildur neither moved nor replied. He stood there, holding it in his hand and staring fondly at it. He was wasting valuable time. I had to disturb him from his trance-like state.
"Isildur!"
Isildur looked up at me with a crazed, obsessed glare.
"No," he whispered, turning around.
"ISILDUR! You must do this! Save your heirs from a terrible fate!"
Isildur stopped. He turned to face me and said, "It is too precious to me."
Growling in frustration, I rushed upon him and tore the blanket out of his hands! It was the one with the Hobbits all over it, the one he slept with every night. It had been passed down in his family for several generations.
Isildur screamed with fury as he struggled to reclaim it from me, clawing like a crazed wildcat. But his efforts were in vain. In the blink of an eye, I threw it in the washing machine, slammed the door, inserted a coin and pressed the button!
I stepped aside with a grin of triumph as Isildur pounded on the door, with tears streaming down his face. I may have been cruel, but at least I can always count on the Mount Doom Laundry Service.
I took one last look at the Hobbit-print blanket as it swirled around inside the machine. Considering that it's still a family heirloom, it's no wonder Aragorn became such a Hobbit-fancier.
Yeah, I know I said in someone's review that I wouldn't write anything new until I finished "The First Year" fic. But I can't let a flash of inspiration go ignored. That would be a waste. And plus, it keeps the Ringers (or Tolkienites, or Lord of the Rings Obsess-ees, whatever you personally prefer) interested in my work.
DISCLAIMER
I am not Peter Jackson or Tolkien. I am a lowly fan writing lowly fanfiction. Therefore, I do not own Elrond or Isildur. I don't know what I would do if I owned either of them. Probably forget about them and leave them to die. Or the exact opposite of forgetting them and leaving them to die, but they would probably die from that too.
------------------------------------------
CAST IT IN!
"Isildur, hurry! Come! We do not have much time!" I cried.
I can remember the undisguised look in his eyes on that fateful day... reluctance. He knew he needed to do this, but that wretched thing grew too dear to him to simply throw away.
He took a few steps towards me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Every step seemed to last an eternity.
Gesturing wildly, I shouted some words of encouragement. "Cast it in, Isildur! Cast it in! You know you must do this!"
Isildur neither moved nor replied. He stood there, holding it in his hand and staring fondly at it. He was wasting valuable time. I had to disturb him from his trance-like state.
"Isildur!"
Isildur looked up at me with a crazed, obsessed glare.
"No," he whispered, turning around.
"ISILDUR! You must do this! Save your heirs from a terrible fate!"
Isildur stopped. He turned to face me and said, "It is too precious to me."
Growling in frustration, I rushed upon him and tore the blanket out of his hands! It was the one with the Hobbits all over it, the one he slept with every night. It had been passed down in his family for several generations.
Isildur screamed with fury as he struggled to reclaim it from me, clawing like a crazed wildcat. But his efforts were in vain. In the blink of an eye, I threw it in the washing machine, slammed the door, inserted a coin and pressed the button!
I stepped aside with a grin of triumph as Isildur pounded on the door, with tears streaming down his face. I may have been cruel, but at least I can always count on the Mount Doom Laundry Service.
I took one last look at the Hobbit-print blanket as it swirled around inside the machine. Considering that it's still a family heirloom, it's no wonder Aragorn became such a Hobbit-fancier.