Nothing says Christmas like crackfic!
Dec. 24th, 2007 06:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedThis is why I can't be trusted with social or family gatherings on holidays. Given any free time whatsoever, my brain tends to go places like this and stay there, and next thing you know I've lost the thread of every conversation and burned the pudding.
This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
altariel, because of her holiday banana icon and this thread. There is no God who can help me now.
Title: Waiting For My Manwë
Fandoms: Lord of the Rings/60s rock RPF
Rating: PG-13 for near-constant drug references
“Ugh.”
“Ow.”
“Shit, what happened?”
“I told Andy not to put so much aluminum foil on the time machine.”
“Scheisse!”
You have to take in this entire scene. Three men and two women, all dressed entirely in black and wearing sunglasses, have come back to themselves on the floor of a golden wood.
Wincing and bitching—for four-fifths of them are badly hungover, and three of them are about to enter drug withdrawal—they try to avoid looking at the source of the bright light as long as possible. When they do, they will see (as they have already begun to hear) that they are not alone.
“Such beautiful people, I hate zem.” says the tall blonde woman, who goes by Nico and no one cares what her real name ever was.
“They look like your relatives, so I hate them too,” mutters the woman who looks like a boy and is known as Moe, who is the only one who can think straight.
“I can almost understand what they’re saying,” says the black-haired man with the craggy nose, whose uneventful name is John. “Their language seems loosely partly based on Welsh. That’s my native language, you know.”
“You only tell us twice a day,” says the shortest, curly-haired man, who is named Lou and is a complete bastard but is chronically forgiven for it because…well, no one quite knows why.
John says something foul in, presumably, Welsh. The tall luminous beings overhear and very nearly understand, unfortunately.
The tallest man, whose name is Sterling, just holds on to his guitar case as if it’s the only thing that floats. Which, as far as his reality at the moment is concerned, is not far from the truth.
The noble lady of the Elves, the one who is taller and blonder and scarier than Nico and so immediately despised by her, is suspicious of the danger these very strange strangers might pose to the secret Quest so recently departed from her lands.
Still, she is a host, and she thinks it best to offer these folks a glimpse in her magic fountain. However, Moe worries that her compatriots, all of who are starting to look distinctly green and sweaty, might just barf in it. She sees herself working at Wal-Mart, and is tempted to murder them all in their (erratic and twitchy) sleep, but the temptation passes. She is no Grudge-Bearer.
The Giving of the Gifts comes next, so that Galadriel can hustle these undesirables out the door as soon as possible (preferably before issues of musical performance start to arise). It doesn’t take long before Lou and John are trying to smash each other’s skulls with the intricately carved paddles of the little leaf boat, and Nico has happily discovered that lembas ground into a fine powder and snorted keeps the worst of the shakes at bay.
***
“A city,” says Lou rapturously, looking at the white spires of Minas Tirith. “There’s bound to be some drag bars here.”
“Am I not voman enough vor you?”
“Frankly, no.”
“There’s got to be some fucking smack or I will kill you and shoot up your blood,” says John.
“If it’s up to you idiots, we’ll never get out of here,” growls Moe. “Do you ever think about anything but sex and drugs?”
“There’s always music,” sighs Sterling. “But there’s no electricity.”
“Electricity comes from other planets,” mutters Lou.
“Oooh, deep,” sneers John.
It has been a long ride. These were not the kind of “horse” most of the band members dreamed of. (Except for Moe, who did want one when she was a little girl. Now she thinks they’re overrated.)
“What about your thunder machine, John?” she asks, trying to be helpful.
“What were you on when you came up with that?” Sterling asks.
“I had an LSD phase,” John mutters defensively.
“Hippie shit,” says Lou archly.
“I didn’t see you turning down that pipeweed last night.”
“Hush,” says Nico, sitting up straight.
***
Upon the city walls, Pippin took courage and looked at the fell things below. The Pelennor lay dim beneath him, and wheeling swiftly across it were dark shadows; birdlike, like great carrion eaters.
“Black Riders!” he wailed.
“Faramir!” cried Beregond.
“There!” Pippin cried, pointing a white light streaking across the plain like a shooting star. Gandalf. But he would not reach them in time, could he?
***
“What’s that noise?” asked Lou, eyes shining behind his black plastic shades.
Already the men of Gondor fleeing past them are beginning to wince and cringe as the hideous shrieks of the Nazgul sear their ears and begin to permeate them with a dread that knows no comfort.
“It’s beautiful,” sighs Nico, glancing at John with a look that passed for amourous on her icy mien.
“I can do better,” John says, jaw set. “Thunder winds. I can raise them.” He doesn’t so much dismount as fall off his horse, but gropes in time for the saddle, where is strapped securely his bow and viola. Lou sees his intention and won’t be left behind, grabbing at ostrich guitar and condor amplifier. Sterling’s guitar is at the ready too, and louder.
“YES!” cries Moe, reaching for her new steel-set, orc-skull drums.
Nico, well, she sings. She has never been in any known key on the Western scale, but that doesn’t matter. She keens and she groans.
The Nazgul screech again, foul and horrifying, the sound of a shredded soul.
John’s electric viola is just as shrill, and louder. His bow moves back and forth in place as he keeps its metallic drone steady. The feedback Lou and Sterling are producing—without electricity as we know it, without amplifiers, for in a conveniently placed moment of Eucatastrophe, the winds arise around the grass of the Pelennor and carry their sound, and Moe’s drums reinforce the hoofbeats and drive the horses faster. The force of it blows the Nazgul about like autumn leaves, and a few of them can be seen holding their gauntlets over where their ears would be, wincing in pain, for a change.
Then the Eagles come. They thought they heard a mating call.
Gandalf sits back on Shadowfax, feeling utterly redundant and thoroughly relieved. He may have the white light, but they have the white light/white heat. Fortunately for him a wizard never arrives without his earplugs.
“Oh there you are,” says an arch, effete voice from the aether.
There is a strange object on the field, covered in shiny aluminum foil. It looks a little bit like a peep-show booth, a little bit like a Pop Art confessional, and frankly, more than a little bit like a TARDIS. A slender man with dark glasses and a mop of wild silver hair leans in its doorway. “Don’t wander off like that, you have a gig.”
~end~
Happy Christmas Eve, Festivus, Sol Invictus, etcetera!
For reference.
This is for
altariel, because of her holiday banana icon and this thread. There is no God who can help me now.Title: Waiting For My Manwë
Fandoms: Lord of the Rings/60s rock RPF
Rating: PG-13 for near-constant drug references
“Ugh.”
“Ow.”
“Shit, what happened?”
“I told Andy not to put so much aluminum foil on the time machine.”
“Scheisse!”
You have to take in this entire scene. Three men and two women, all dressed entirely in black and wearing sunglasses, have come back to themselves on the floor of a golden wood.
Wincing and bitching—for four-fifths of them are badly hungover, and three of them are about to enter drug withdrawal—they try to avoid looking at the source of the bright light as long as possible. When they do, they will see (as they have already begun to hear) that they are not alone.
“Such beautiful people, I hate zem.” says the tall blonde woman, who goes by Nico and no one cares what her real name ever was.
“They look like your relatives, so I hate them too,” mutters the woman who looks like a boy and is known as Moe, who is the only one who can think straight.
“I can almost understand what they’re saying,” says the black-haired man with the craggy nose, whose uneventful name is John. “Their language seems loosely partly based on Welsh. That’s my native language, you know.”
“You only tell us twice a day,” says the shortest, curly-haired man, who is named Lou and is a complete bastard but is chronically forgiven for it because…well, no one quite knows why.
John says something foul in, presumably, Welsh. The tall luminous beings overhear and very nearly understand, unfortunately.
The tallest man, whose name is Sterling, just holds on to his guitar case as if it’s the only thing that floats. Which, as far as his reality at the moment is concerned, is not far from the truth.
The noble lady of the Elves, the one who is taller and blonder and scarier than Nico and so immediately despised by her, is suspicious of the danger these very strange strangers might pose to the secret Quest so recently departed from her lands.
Still, she is a host, and she thinks it best to offer these folks a glimpse in her magic fountain. However, Moe worries that her compatriots, all of who are starting to look distinctly green and sweaty, might just barf in it. She sees herself working at Wal-Mart, and is tempted to murder them all in their (erratic and twitchy) sleep, but the temptation passes. She is no Grudge-Bearer.
The Giving of the Gifts comes next, so that Galadriel can hustle these undesirables out the door as soon as possible (preferably before issues of musical performance start to arise). It doesn’t take long before Lou and John are trying to smash each other’s skulls with the intricately carved paddles of the little leaf boat, and Nico has happily discovered that lembas ground into a fine powder and snorted keeps the worst of the shakes at bay.
***
“A city,” says Lou rapturously, looking at the white spires of Minas Tirith. “There’s bound to be some drag bars here.”
“Am I not voman enough vor you?”
“Frankly, no.”
“There’s got to be some fucking smack or I will kill you and shoot up your blood,” says John.
“If it’s up to you idiots, we’ll never get out of here,” growls Moe. “Do you ever think about anything but sex and drugs?”
“There’s always music,” sighs Sterling. “But there’s no electricity.”
“Electricity comes from other planets,” mutters Lou.
“Oooh, deep,” sneers John.
It has been a long ride. These were not the kind of “horse” most of the band members dreamed of. (Except for Moe, who did want one when she was a little girl. Now she thinks they’re overrated.)
“What about your thunder machine, John?” she asks, trying to be helpful.
“What were you on when you came up with that?” Sterling asks.
“I had an LSD phase,” John mutters defensively.
“Hippie shit,” says Lou archly.
“I didn’t see you turning down that pipeweed last night.”
“Hush,” says Nico, sitting up straight.
***
Upon the city walls, Pippin took courage and looked at the fell things below. The Pelennor lay dim beneath him, and wheeling swiftly across it were dark shadows; birdlike, like great carrion eaters.
“Black Riders!” he wailed.
“Faramir!” cried Beregond.
“There!” Pippin cried, pointing a white light streaking across the plain like a shooting star. Gandalf. But he would not reach them in time, could he?
***
“What’s that noise?” asked Lou, eyes shining behind his black plastic shades.
Already the men of Gondor fleeing past them are beginning to wince and cringe as the hideous shrieks of the Nazgul sear their ears and begin to permeate them with a dread that knows no comfort.
“It’s beautiful,” sighs Nico, glancing at John with a look that passed for amourous on her icy mien.
“I can do better,” John says, jaw set. “Thunder winds. I can raise them.” He doesn’t so much dismount as fall off his horse, but gropes in time for the saddle, where is strapped securely his bow and viola. Lou sees his intention and won’t be left behind, grabbing at ostrich guitar and condor amplifier. Sterling’s guitar is at the ready too, and louder.
“YES!” cries Moe, reaching for her new steel-set, orc-skull drums.
Nico, well, she sings. She has never been in any known key on the Western scale, but that doesn’t matter. She keens and she groans.
The Nazgul screech again, foul and horrifying, the sound of a shredded soul.
John’s electric viola is just as shrill, and louder. His bow moves back and forth in place as he keeps its metallic drone steady. The feedback Lou and Sterling are producing—without electricity as we know it, without amplifiers, for in a conveniently placed moment of Eucatastrophe, the winds arise around the grass of the Pelennor and carry their sound, and Moe’s drums reinforce the hoofbeats and drive the horses faster. The force of it blows the Nazgul about like autumn leaves, and a few of them can be seen holding their gauntlets over where their ears would be, wincing in pain, for a change.
Then the Eagles come. They thought they heard a mating call.
Gandalf sits back on Shadowfax, feeling utterly redundant and thoroughly relieved. He may have the white light, but they have the white light/white heat. Fortunately for him a wizard never arrives without his earplugs.
“Oh there you are,” says an arch, effete voice from the aether.
There is a strange object on the field, covered in shiny aluminum foil. It looks a little bit like a peep-show booth, a little bit like a Pop Art confessional, and frankly, more than a little bit like a TARDIS. A slender man with dark glasses and a mop of wild silver hair leans in its doorway. “Don’t wander off like that, you have a gig.”
~end~
Happy Christmas Eve, Festivus, Sol Invictus, etcetera!
For reference.
no subject
Date: 2014-06-29 07:00 am (UTC)