Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author
Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I’m just borrowing them for a while to play.
Rating: teeens, for this part.
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 Archet, my sister-in-arms when it comes to Boromir-lusting. Here’s your Preciousssss, girl…
Things were still not going well for our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still referred to as FFA, though after the latest flame she considered changing her ID into Very Frustrated Actor). Not only has she been flamed – again! – but the Valar granted her what she wished for most: they put an end to the invasion of the plotcritters.
They sent the little buggers hibernate.
All of them.
Which was a rather unlucky turn of events, since the Most Important Story our FFA was working on feverishly (also known as The Great Boromir Epic) came to a crashing halt as well.
She only realized this when it was already too late to attach a little footnote to her constant prayers to the Valar. Which realization only made her even more depressed. Understandably.
“I hate my life,” she declared to the universe in general, since no-one was listening anyway. Which – considering that she didn’t actually have a life in the first place – was a rather strange thing indeed. But she couldn’t care less. Her once-faithful readers had abandoned her for months, and she didn’t seem able to gain new ones, meaning that she had no reviews for quite some time. And everyone knows what no reviews mean to the fragile ego of an author. No reviews were almost worse than flames. Almost.
“Why in Middle-earth have I begun to write about you?” she continued her incoherent conversation, this time aiming her ramblings at a screen cap of Sean Bean, in full Boromir attire, though blissfully having dark hair, thank to the clever fingers of one Archet who wielded mouse and keyboard with magical talent. “I don’t even like that darn movie!”
“You liked me even less in the Books,” the rich voice of Gondor’s Heir answered, and Boromir moved out of the shadows. After Gildor’s recent visit she wasn’t that surprised to see him, though she’d expected him to come through the computer screen.
“You look…different,” she managed to get out, after giving the manly Man a good, hard look (and secretly wiping the drool from her chin). Boromir shrugged. In fact, he looked a lot like Sean Bean with a dark wig, though his features were considerably more elegant. After all, he did have a thin trail of Elven blood from both his parents’ side.
“That is because you cannot decide whether you want me as Sean Bean or as that fake Celeborn, clad all in black,” he replied morosely. “I wish you would make up your mind – ‘tis really frustrating.”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“I do,” Boromir agreed, checking his manly appearance in the tall, narrow, wood-framed mirror in the hall. “Actually, Sean Bean with a dark wig does the trick for me just nicely – save one detail. I cannot remember it being written in the Books that I would have such a long nose. ‘Tis undignified. Had people never heard that I was called ‘Boromir the Fair’? Or do they think it meant that I was actually blond?”
“Obviously, Peter Jackson did?” she pointed out mercilessly. “But you really don’t have any reason to complain. At least he made you a likeable character. You got several very nice scenes in the movie.”
“Likeable?” Boromir shot her an exasperated look. “Did you not notice that there are most insulting tales about me – and dozens of those – where I am going mad, raping my companions (preferably Legolas), submitting to Aragorn like a street whore and having sex with the hobbits?”
“I did notice it,” she replied patiently. “That’s why I started to write about you – to give you some justice.”
Boromir, however, was not so easy to persuade.
“You made me gay,” he continued accusingly. “You even made me lust after my own brother.”
“That was not me,” she reminded him. “I borrowed the idea. And I got you out of that dilemma neatly, didn’t I?”
“You should not accept gifts from Foul Dwimmerlaiks,” he grumbled. “And I am not gay, you know. Granted, there were clashes on the field after battle, but that makes me not gay. Had the Great Maker let me live, I would have married and sired sons to take over after me.”
“You had plenty of time to do so, and yet you did not,” she shot back. “I don’t understand why you are complaining. Are you so mismatched with Elladan? You even had children together in one AU.”
He shuddered, his eyes darkening. “You should not remind me of my pregnancy. It was not a pleasant experience.”
“I should have given you the Aragorn/Boromir cliché,” she replied indignantly. “I made an Elf fall in undying love with you, saved your father, killed Aragorn for you, kept your buddy Théodred alive, and all you can do is to complain. I gave you three different lives. Pick one and be done with it.”
“I don’t want them,” Boromir replied stubbornly. “I want a normal life, in customary Middle-earth fashion. Just like the Great Maker intended it to be.”
She sighed and looked at him with great pity.
“My dear Boromir,” she said, “you obviously don’t understand. Your life will never be the same again. Not after the movie. Now, go and ravish your Elf, I have here things to do.”
Boromir opened his mouth to answer – then remembered all those horrible stories floating around the ‘Net about him and shut up. She was right. All things considered, he was still best off with her.
The end – for now.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The story referred to here is “From the Other River Bank” from Dwimordene, whose Yahoo ID is F. Dwimmerlaik. Spoilers to my story “Annúminas” are throughout in this little insanity.