A/N: Oh dear. Once more, my very odd brain has produced another rather bizarre piece of 'humour', if you wish to call it such. This is for Zimraphel, who wanted something to do with Númenor; ask, and thou shall receive…
Disclaimer: I am sorry. Very, very, sorry. Exceedingly sorry. I also do not own any of the characters or places within, save for the Ambassador, a lot of Faeries, and a sheep.
Dramatis Personae:
(In order of appearance)
In Rivendell:
Ambassador – A smelly human.
Amdir – King of Lórien. A very nice chap.
Gil-galad – High King of the Noldor, and sore loser.
Galadriel and Celeborn – Elven lovebirds
Oropher – King of Mirkwood. Has a cunning plan.
Elrond – Lord of Imladris and Herald to Gil-Galad. Dislikes Fae.
Amroth – Prince of Lórien and bloody useless at Archery.
A Large Number of Fae – bloody things. Breed like rabbits.
A Screaming, Biting, Fae – the only one that gets a speaking part.
Thranduil – Prince of Mirkwood. Better at Archery than Amroth.
On the Way to Númenor:
Dwarves – Think they are funny.
A Troll – Not a morning person.
A Large Number of Fae – see above
In Númenor:
Sauron – Evil Maia-type person.
Ar-Pharazôn – absent King of Númenor
A Large Number of Fae – you begin to get the idea…
A Sheep – Baa.
In Valinor:
Varda – You bet I'm bloody well Queen of the Valar!
Manwë – Yes, dear.
Ulmo – Remind me again why I put up with these idiots?
Nienna – "Waaahhh!!!" *sniffle*
"Your majesties, what I have to say to you is of great import." The ambassador sent by Elendil looked rather haggard, which was to be expected, after the long journey from Númenor. He also smelled slightly of fish, which was slightly less expected. Amdir kept discreetly trying to spray him with lavender oil.
"We're listening." Gil-galad replied, lounging on his seat. Imladris definitely had been the best choice for a council. Good weather, good company, a chance to steal back some of the wine Elrond had absconded with from Lindon – it was all here. He frowned at the game-board in front of him. Amdir was beating him four games to two, and such a thing was not to be allowed. Who was High King here, anyway?
"Given the nature of the message, I would prefer if all the representatives were present…"
And perhaps if the mortal would stop babbling for just one second, he'd be able to concentrate on important things, like the game.
"I don't know that that will be possible at the moment." he said smoothly, cutting off any further argument. Dear Manwë, to think that poor Elrond was related to these creatures. "The Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel are… indisposed…" Translation: Celeborn and Galadriel have retreated to one of the bedrooms with several bottles of wine and a large amount of that special lembas, but he wasn't about to say that out loud, not if he valued Little Ereinion. His favourite cousin had a sharp tongue and a sharper knife, and he'd rather not be on the receiving end of either.
"How about King Oropher, then? Prince Thranduil? Prince Amroth? Elrond, your Herald?"
"Also busy." And on a mission of much more import than anything that could be happening on that silly island.
From somewhere down in the valley voices could be heard; along with the sharp whistle of a swan-fletched arrow passing through the air, and the occasional high-pitched death squeal.
"Twenty-four!" roared Oropher, his voice echoing off the valley walls. "Nice shot, m'boy! Just you wait, Peredhil, we'll match your total – and better it!"
"Perhaps you should just tell us." said Gil-galad kindly. "We'll pass the message along, don't you worry."
"Ar-Pharazôn wages war against the faithful…" the ambassador began, flinching when a high-pitched squeak echoed round the valley. "Twenty-seven!" called Elrond.
"…the White Tree felled, human sacrifices made to Melkor…" he continued, trying to ignore the continued yells from the Fae Hunt down in the valley, and the fact that Amdir was pretending to listen to him while rearranging the game pieces when the High King wasn't looking.
"Human sacrifices?" asked Gil-galad, looking interested. "I don't see why that's so much of a problem."
The ambassador was taken aback. "Pardon me, your Majesty, but…"
"Oh, I'm sure it looks dire from your end." said the King, airily. "But you'll bounce back in no time. You men, you breed like… ah, what is the phrase again?"
An arrow flew past them, impaling a small winged shape to the wall.
"Like Fae?" suggested Elrond, moving swiftly pass to retrieve the body and toss it into a now-bulging sack. "Damn things. Twenty-eight!" he added, and a second later the reply came echoing up from further down.
"Ha! We're up to twenty-six!"
"That bloody Amroth is useless." muttered Elrond. "Don't know why I had to be partners with that weak-willed, son-of-a…" He caught Amdir staring at him. "Son of a very nice chap. Aha. Just joking, really."
Luckily for Elrond, the ambassador broke the tension with the immortal phrase
"Ah! Getitoff, getitoff, getitoff!", as a faerie sunk it's teeth into his leg. He whacked at it inefficiently until Amdir threw a book at it, at which point it dodged and flew up above his head, swearing in some unknown language.
"OMG! U SUX0R!!!1!"
Elrond, ever the scholar, had at one point captured a few of these creatures in the hope of deciphering their language, but had quickly given up. Meanwhile, the faerie hovered over the ambassador's head, clearly angry at its mistreatment.
There are two ways in which small winged creatures have traditionally expressed their anger towards their larger, walking brethren. The Fae in question had already bit; so it stuck its tongue out, raised its flower-petal skirts, and implemented the only option left to it.
"Oh dear," said Amdir. "I hope that outfit wasn't expensive. That stuff never comes out."
An arrow arced overhead, hitting the faerie clean through the chest.
"Twenty-seven!" called Thranduil.
The body of the faerie landed on top of the game board, scattering pieces everywhere. Gil-galad didn't mind, he'd been losing anyway.
At that point, the ambassador lost his very mortal temper altogether.
"Have you heard nothing I have said, you Eru-damned idiots! They plan to rebel against the Valar themselves! Mandos take them all, and you with them!"
"Hmm. Rebel against the Valar, you say?" mused Oropher.
"Do you have a cunning plan, Father?" asked Thranduil.
"I do indeed." replied Oropher. "A very cunning plan indeed."
-----
By the time the harassed ambassador had been found room to lie down and a change of clothes, the Plan was in full swing. Lindir and Erestor had been put in charge of design, and had come up with some very cunning Faerie-sized posters.
They read as follows:
---- FAERIES! ----
~Tired of Elves bossing you around?~
~Emigrate to the Beautiful Isle of Númenor!~
~~Featuring Sea, Sand, and absolutely NO ELVES!!!~~
~~~~Thousands of Untouched Areas to Defile!!~~~~
~~Leave now!~~
~~~
~~~We mean it. NOW!~~~
~p.s. Did we mention NO ELVES?~
With the assistance of the birds and beasts of the forest, these posters (printed on fully biodegradable lembas-paper, provided by Haldir & Co, Lórien), were scattered throughout Middle-earth. And from Mirkwood and Lórien, from Imladris and Lindon, from the peaks of mountains and the deepest dwarf-mines, the great migration began.
It went fairly smoothly, apart from the point at which some of Durin's folk thought it would be funny to roll large stones (and in one case, a sleeping troll, which had not been happy when it woke up) down the mountainside, to crash into the faerie trail. (They were right. It was funny. Particularly the bit with the troll.)
Soon, all of Middle-earth was Faerie-free, although some of Cirdan's mariners claimed to have acquired repetitive stress injuries from making all those little boats out of leaves. Why exactly a race of creatures with wings needed boats, nobody had ever figured out.
Part one of the plan was complete. Elrond, Gil-galad, and the newly arrived Mithrandir retired to the innermost halls of Imladris, to discuss Part two of Operation Oropher's Cunning Plan That Proves Once and For All The Sindar Are Better Shut Up Gil-Galad You Prick What Did You Just Say About My Mother?
(It is possible that the scribe attending the meeting had been slightly misled. Elrond always referred to it as Operation Get Them Little Winged Buggers, and this alternative title seems to have entered into common use.)
-----
"Ar-Pharazôn, where are you? I'm going to" whack "pin your" smite! "useless hide" smite smite smite! "to the frigging wall!" ubersmite!
Sauron, a.k.a Annatar, a.k.a The Maiar Formally Known as Gorthaur, stomped around the corner, making sure to scowl in an appropriately menacing way. Faeries filled Númenor, stealing things, breaking other things, and scrawling graffiti on anything that would hold still long enough.
He'd woken up this morning to find his favourite horse, a dark steed whose great hooves could crush skulls and whose presence struck fear into the hearts of men, etcetera, had had the words 'Sauron kisses Orc-Ass!' scrawled on it's side in white paint.
Leaving a trail of fallen faerie bodies behind him, he stalked towards the throne room. He really needed to sacrifice something, although seeing as the damn Fae had stolen his sacrificing knife, broken the altar, locked the doors to the sacrifice room and jammed the locks with what someone had informed him was known as 'gum', that might take a while to organise.
The doors to the throne room were shut and locked. Sauron the Deceiver, Lord of Terror and Darkness and suchlike, read the message in disbelief.
Hi, you've reached the Throne Room of Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn can't come to the throne right now, as he is busy rebelling against the Valar. If you would like to leave a message, please feel free to pin it on the sheep. Thank you.
"Baaa."
"Oh, shut up."
-----
Watching an older than time, more gracious than the Elves, more beautiful than the stars, more gentle than the summer breeze Goddess pout and scream at the same time is certainly a most impressive thing, although Manwë was too busy avoiding the thrown household objects to notice.
He wasn't in fact sure why they had household objects. Varda didn't exactly ask Nessa round for tea, so there was no real need for the teapot that had just gone whizzing past his head. Manwë wasn't the wisest of the wise for no reason though, and he decided it would be better not to ask.
The source of the disturbance was a letter that had been delivered that morning:
Dear Valar,
It has come to my attention that the inhabitants of Númenor are involved in the worship of Melkor, and intend to rebel against your wise and ancient ban and set their grubby mortal feet upon the soil of Valinor. I suggest you do something about it.
Yours Sincerely,
A Friend.
p.s. And they said Varda was fat.
It was the postscript that had been the clincher. Manwë had some suspicions that 'A Friend', might be more correctly spelled O-L-O-R-I-N, but no matter what the source, it was obvious that something needed to be done.
Thus, ducking an ink-well, he went outside and indulged in a practice that, many ages later, would come to be known as 'passing the buck'.
"Ulmo?"
"Yes."
"Could you sink Númenor for me? Thanks."
Ulmo waited until Manwë had turned the corner.
"Nienna? Could you just turn a little to your right?"
"Towards Númenor?"
"Uh, yeah. And one other thing – Námo said your ass looks big in that dress."
"WAAAHH…."
The tidal-wave swept over the ships of Ar-Pharazôn, and headed straight for Númenor. On the docks at Mithlond, Oropher cracked open another bottle of the Dorwinion, and a group of very merry Elves watched Part Two of their cunning, cunning plan unfold.
-----
Back in Númenor, Sauron had finally lost it.
"There are Faerie bites on my Fair Form!" he screamed. "I cannot work under these conditions! I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!!!!!!"
"Baa?"
Then he turned, and his eyes widened as the great wave came ever closer…
"Oh crap."
A/N: And there you go. If you ever wondered why there weren't any Fae in Middle-earth, or the real reason Númenor was sunk, well, now you know.