How to Die in Middle-earth – A collection of short stories — part 2

by Oct 7, 2003Stories

How to Die in Middle-earth
A collection of short stories — part 2

The Most Beautifullistificallenth Girl Ever — or, why it is a bad idea to insult Galadriel in front of Gimli.

Daliehendra, the incredibly “beautiful” and “talented” half-elf, half-pixie with parenting problems and the downsides of each race, was “the most Beautifullist princess in the Hole Word.” Daliehendra was extrodinarily proud of this fact — and perhaps not very aware that having a misspelled title is not a compliment. Oh, and that “beautifullist” wasn’t even a word, if you asked anyone above about four years of age.

Poor, misinformed Daliehendra (or “Dalihenranessishenath,” as she liked to call herself) had spent the last few decades “beautifullistifying” herself in front of the most “clearfullish and sparklingistuth” portrait of her rather lovely mother. Alas, she believed it was a mirror. Daliehendra wasn’t very bright. She was, however, exceedingly vain.

To show off that “perfectfully” honed vanited, Dalihendra decided one day to visit a random location out of her randomly-placed-and-non-existant-home-in-Middle-earth.

She stepped out in front of Gimli.

“Lookith, oh ugly-dwarfy-thing-whoth-doth-noth-deservith-toith-standith-inith-mine-presence . . .ith!!!” exclaimed, dragging exclamation points behind her. “I am the most beautifullistith creature in the Hole Word!!!! Choppith offith my headith, good sir, if thouth believeth mine noth!”

Gimli took one look at the Galadriel-insulting vain child, and did as she told him: her head would lay there forever more.


Why it is a BAD Idea to Try and Heal Frodo by Taking His Wounds Upon Yourself In Rivendell After the Wraith Stab — also known as: “A superfluously long title.”

Mithalion, an elf of Rivendell, entered one of the siderooms late one fall day. It was empty, save for two rather short people — about half the size of himself.

Mithalion had a kind heart, and soon saw that the hobbit laying on the bed was injuring, and the one by his side weeping. He stepped closer, so that the younger one looked up at him quizzically, and asked what he was doing there.

“I can save your friend,” the elf said simply, and knelt by the prostrate hobbit — Frodo Baggins. Mithalion laid his hands upon Frodo and took the evilness of the hobbit’s wounds upon himself. But it was not enough. There was too much bad in that dagger stab.

At that moment, Elrond re-entered the room and saw Mithalion there. Knowing the younger elf was empathetic but clumbsy, Elrond ordered him out, and began again to work upon the hobbit himself.

But Mithalion could not stay away for long, and as soon as Elrond had gone, he snuck back in the room to submerse himself into Frodo’s mind . . . but he was not strong enough, and sunk into shadow himself, and then into death forever.

For long years later, the shadow of Mithalion’s corpse watched everthing that came to pass in that room: the healing of Frodo and other guests, the passing of the sun and the moon. Things he could never have or do again, because he tried something impossible one day long ago.


Why NOT to Challange a Ranger to A Duel. — or, yet another really stupid thing to do.

Radare was a typical Mary-sue human who had survived being dropped from the sky for the sole purpose of making the entire Fellowship of the Ring fall in love with her perfectness.

Dazzling the entire company with her beauty and sparkling, bright teeth (well, blinding would be closer, but the other word was more flattering) Radare asked to join the Company.

They said no.

Radare, hearing something that no doubt came from her own mind, repeated it into the air: “A mere girl?!?! You sexist pig!!” she was very talented at employing painful punctuation in conjunction with . . . odd . . . cliches from our own world. “I challenge not Sexist!Boromir-who-I-am-pretending-said-that-to-make-me-great to a duel, but you, Strider!” she drew her shimmering blue-green-purple colored sword. It was hard to look straight at. Radare rushed straight at him . . .

But one question still mystifyed the readers: Didn’t she know by now Aragorn’s real name? No time for that now . . .

“A Duel?” Aragorn asked, confused by this strange challenge from a girl who had fallen from the sky . . . and survived. He drew his sword just the same.

Legolas, with the lightning speed of an elf, shot an arrow through the air and Radare’s throat. Any enemy of Aragorn was an enemy of all of them. How dare she attack the future king!


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