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Strange Encounters
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Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I’m just borrowing them for a while to play.

Rating: teens, for this part.

Author’s notes:
These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

Dedication: To dear Jenn, whose ongoing Gildor jokes called this totally insane fic into existence. It’s she that you should lynch for it, you know…


Strange Encounters
Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author
by Soledad

One: Gildor

The Frustrated Fanfiction Author (simply FFA for further reference) was sitting in front of her computer and glared at the screen from slightly aching eyes. To say that she was miserable would have been an understatement.

She had a bad week behind her – well, several really bad weeks, actually. She had to put away a few considerable Real Life throwbacks, had put on even more excess weight as a result of the aforementioned throwbacks (chocolate just doesn’t solve every problem, despite its usefulness), and what’s was even more frustrating, the dratted muses refused to cooperate. Plus, she just got flamed again by some idiot who deliberately misunderstood one of her stories.

The situation was serious, indeed. She had about a dozen WIPs unfinished, and her plotcritters were crawling in every corner, especially in the shadowy corners of her own brain. (In case you are wondering, plotcritters are about the same creatures as plotbunnies – just smaller and more insistent. Thus they can get everywhere they want). The mere appearance of a new story idea made her groan in pain. The cursed stories would flow smoothly until a certain stage – then they put down their imaginary feet and refused to go anywhere, spawning new plotcritters by every new turn.

“I need bug spray,” she muttered, stomping on a particularly bothersome critter concerning Saruman, that insisted that she used ungodly long names in Valarin – names that she could not keep apart in her mind herself, and even less so could her readers. “Lots of bug spray,” she added in a murderous tone, picking up the seemingly dead critter with a thong and throwing it out of the open window.

Not that it would help her a lot. The critter will be back in no time. She knew that. But she simply couldn’t endure the ugly little bug any longer.

“I begin to hate plotcritters,” she muttered, closing the document she wasn’t able to working on anyway and accessing the main page of her favourite mailing list for some much-needed inspiration. Maybe the others had written something that she could read and thus banish her own immobile plots from her mind.

For a moment she contemplated the small picture in the group’s header. It portrayed a tall, handsome, golden-haired Elf who looked back over his broad shoulder with the typical arrogance of a high-born leader. She couldn’t understand why she found this guy so attractive – she never liked blondes in the first place, and she passionately hated arrogant people, especially male ones. Still, this one fictional character fascinated her to no end, and she kept writing about him in many different tales that wouldn’t originally contain him at all.

She went into the Photos section of her group where she could see a bigger size of the same picture and sighed. She’d found this particular photo on some other website (she’d forgotten where), and it wasn’t even labelled as her character. But she knew at first sight that this was what the character should look like. And thus the picture became him.

“What am I going to do with you, Lord Gildor?” she sighed, ready to hit the Back button. Staring at him did nothing to put her mind at ease.

“Whatever you please,” a pleasantly smooth baritone voice answered, and she watched in utter shock as the Elf-Lord simply stepped out of the computer screen. Doing so, he seemed to grow to full size, and when he finally stood next to her she could see that he was six feet at the very least, wearing the same silver-hued tunic and royal blue velvet cloak he was wearing on the picture. Also, he smelled faintly of sandalwood and of the Sea.

Strangely, the computer screen was not blank. The picture was still visible on it, despite the very real Elf-Lord, who shook his limbs with a tight smile and – after a moment of consideration – lay his great sword upon the book-case and sat relaxed on the corner of her desk.

“That’s better,” he declared. “Now, what was it you wanted to do with me?”

She found herself less than articulate at the moment, thinking back furiously what the heck had she eaten or drunk in the last 24 hours that could result in her own character becoming real – well, seemingly real – all of a sudden. She did live in the world of her imagination most of the time, that was true, but usually she could keep things under control.

Of course, it could be that she finally had gone crazy…

“Nay, you are not,” said Gildor Inglorion, as if he could read her mind easily. Though considering the fact that he usually did live inside her mind, he probably could. “I’m really here.”

“I can see that,” she replied suspiciously, “but that doesn’t mean that I’m not insane. After all, you never came to me in flesh before.”

“You never called me,” Gildor replied simply, “though we might debate about the question if it is truly me who came to you or it is you who came to me. At the end, it doesn’t matter. What really matters is, that we’ve finally met, Cuilánie.”

“Why are you calling me like that?” she demanded. “It sounds stupid.”

Gildor shrugged. “Nevertheless, it is your name. In Quenya, of course, but it’s your name all the same.”

“I don’t do Quenya,” she scowled. “Were you real, you would know that. Nor do I use contractions in my stories. You never talk like this when I write you.”

“True, but we aren’t in one of your stories,” answered Gildor. “We are in your world now, at least partially – and I’m almost one of the Vanyar. We do adapt to new tongues quickly. But if my use of contractions bothers you, I’ll…” he stopped and corrected himself with that tight little smile again; “I shall try to avoid them, Cuilánie.”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Would you, please, stop calling me like that? I hate my real name, you know.”

“I know,” Gildor nodded, his usually icy eyes uncommonly gentle, “but that is what you are to me – to all of us whom you write about. Cuilánie. The Life-giver. You made us whom we are.”

“Nah,” she said, “that was the Professor. I only borrowed you to have some fun.”

“You are very wrong in that,” replied the Elf. “The Professor, as you call him, created us in the first place, that is true. But in his book, I was only some random Elf who came across the path of the Ringbearer and had not much to say. As Finch said, I am one of those rare Elves who not even have a footnote. You made me the Lord of Edhellond, gave me devoted followers, strength, dignity, a family tree – and my soul-mate. You gave me life.”

She blinked a few times, thoroughly confused. There was some truth in Gildor’s words, of course, but…

“Where have you heard of Finch?” she finally asked, and at that, the Elf actually laughed – it was a very pleasant sound.

“Are you not the one who keeps telling that I would read all your posts over your shoulder? Are you not dwelling in the South Haven, under the very roof you have created for me yourself? I know everything,” here he actually twinkled at her, “even those things you are discussing with Lossefalme in your secret messages.”

At that, she blushed furiously, for their jokes could get a little… smutty sometimes. Especially when they included Gildor. The usually so cold and pale face of the Elf showed genuine amusement.

“Worry not,” he soothed her. “You could not possibly insult me. I am your creation, after all. Ever since the mortals rediscovered the Books after that… thing you call a movie, I have been reading a lot. I must say, most of what I saw concerning my not so humble self was nothing short terrifying. For a long time, I either have been ignored, for I can only be found in the Books, or I have been portrayed as an unhewn, brainless lustling. Then you came and made me what I am now. More than that – you brought other people to see me the way you do. And write about me in a manner that I find pleasant. So, what are a few raunchy jokes compared with the riches you have given me?”

“But what are you doing here?” she asked, still very much at loss. Gildor shrugged again.

“I came to celebrate,” he said. “I know that you are having a tough time right now and need some cheering up. We are one day away from the Spring Festival, after all.”

“I know not if I should agree with that,” she replied with a grin, getting into the spirit of the whole thing. “I do remember how you celebrated the Autumn Festival with poor Erestor, you know.”

“That”, answered Gildor with a royally arched eyebrow, “was your/i> idea, if I remember correctly. Besides, you are not Erestor – even though you managed to take my nephew from me to marry him to that oaf.”

“That was Lindir’s wish,” she said defensively. Gildor shook his golden head in amusement.

“As if we could do anything that you wish us not to do.”

“Oh, yes!” she said, empathically. “You do it all the time. All of you. And you, my dear Lord Gildor, especially.”

Gildor seemed honestly surprised by that.

“Really?” he asked. “In that case you must be a better scribe than even you imagine. All the better for us – we can have much more fun this way.”

She eyed him suspiciously again. “What do you have on that devious Finwëan mind of yours?”

To her shock, the Elf leaned forward and laid his soft lips on hers for a moment. He tasted of some elusive sweetness that she never encountered before.

“I intend to make all those little jokes of yours true,” he murmured. But she stood and stepped outside of his reach.

“This is not real,” she said with a bitterness that surprised even her. “When I turn off my computer, you will vanish – and I will have to return to the outside world once again.”

“You cannot avoid that,” Gildor agreed. “But I shall not vanish when you bring that noisy box to silence. I do not live in it. I live in the Books, in your notices… and in your heart.”

He touched the green button and the computer screen went dark. Then he swept her into his arms without any effort, and she shrieked.

“Put me down! I’m too heavy.”

“For a mortal, mayhap,” he answered with his customary Finwëan haughtiness. “But I am Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, the Lord of Edhellond and leader of the Wandering Company. I fought in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad and pulled Erestor from the very jaws of the werewolves. I could run with you in my arms to Imladris and back again… yet I suggest that we indulge in more pleasant activities. Where is the wine?”

“I don’t drink wine,” she said, still struggling a little. “It makes my stomach hurt.”

“Not my vintage, it will not,” Gildor declared. “I shall see that it will be delivered at once. And since your world knows no true minstrels, mayhap we can use that other box in your bedchamber I have heard producing music before?”

She didn’t need much thinking to realize that he meant her CD-player. “How do you know what I have in my bedroom?”

“Ai, I beg you!” Gildor rolled those sea-hued eyes of his. “You write your tales in practically every room in your house. Where ever you do it, I get to know the room.”

That made her blush again, for indeed, she tended to write in the most unusual places of her flat at times.

“All right,” she said hurriedly, “I can make the box produce music. Just put me down, would you? Hanging from your arms makes me a little dizzy.”

“You are going to be more than a little dizzy,” he promised with an infuriating grin. “And may I suggest that you write something in your bathtub next time?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The end – for now.


The names are from the Quenya Lapselarma website:
Since they only had English names, I was forced to use my real name.


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