All was tranquil and beautiful in Valinor. The birds sang, the elves sang, the Maiar sang, and all would have been peaceful, too, had they been singing the same tune. But we digress.
As I was saying, all was peaceful, beautiful, and all the adjectives that mean roughly their equivalent.
'ENOUGH!' roared Mandos, storming into Manwë's hall on Mount Everwhite. Varda sighed in annoyance. Námo was always Dooming-and-Glooming about something. Her sour mood was somewhat appeased when she smugly noticed that he was more than slightly out of breath from having climbed the tallest mountain in Arda. And judging by how ticked-off he looked, the Vala must have had cause to make the trek in record time, too.
'Súlimo,' he ground out,' I can no longer endure the-' Here he gnashed his teeth, '-insubordinate ...insubordination of Fëanor!' Námo made the name sound as though it tasted of stale licorice: the worst flavour in Arda.
'And what would you have me do about this ... insubordination?' Manwë inquired, inwardly sighing at the tirade that was sure to follow.
But instead of the expected rantings and ravings, Mandos buried his head in his hands and groaned.
'Is there nothing that will quell his constant anger? His endless schemes and accusations? Is there no peace?'
Varda raised an eyebrow. 'Your...threats against him had no effect?'
The answer came in a tone of despondency. 'None. None what so ever. That cursed Noldo is beyond shame - he he heeds not my blackmail, still vowing to escape my halls and wreak vengeance upon his enemies.'
Manwë sighed, out loud this time – the situation called for a hundred sighs. 'As I said, what would you have me do?'
'I do not know,' Mandos wailed, 'I do not know!'
A long pause ensued.
The silence was punctuated by Varda's sudden cry of 'I have an idea!'
All eyes turned to the Star Queen.
'Well, let us hear it. I begin to grow desperate,' Námo replied.
Varda lowered her voice and said in a conspiratorial whisper, 'I have learned the art by which recalcitrant Fëar may be transformed into objects which the mortal Men give unto to their children for amusement. They are named 'plushies'...'
As she spoke, a wicked gleam appeared in Mandos's eyes.
. . .
RandomCelt and DarthMihi (who shall hereafter be referred to as Mihi and Celt) were having a typical, boring day. Their parents had gone out of town for the weekend, leaving the Wayfaring Strangersto hold down the fort. (Which may have been a bad idea.) Mihi was reading a fanfic, and Celt was laboring rather fruitlessly over a sketch of Idril Celebrindal.
Then the door bell rang, like an ominous herald of Doom.
Celt, who had long ago begun ignoring such heralds of Doom, dashed down the carpeted stairs and hastily opened the front door, a half-way cheerful 'hello' on her lips. But there was no one on the other side, only a dog-eared cardboard box. That's weird, she thought, staring into the cloudy distance. Celt shook her mousy brown head and carried it into the kitchen. As it landed on the counter with a doleful thump, Mihi sauntered into the green-walled room, then stopped short and looked questioningly at her twin sister.
'Celt, what's that?'
'I don't know...' She frowned and absently re-adjusted her glasses.
Mihi sighed and rolled her brown eyes. 'Who sent it?'
Celt sighed. 'Mihi, I don't know.'
'Then read the label, Twaddle.'
Celt ignored the irritating nickname, and squinted at the battered, fading sticker. Her frown deepened.
'It doesn't have any info on it at it all. It only says, 'To the Foolish Mortals...from Námo?'
Big thanks to my beta, CrackinAndProudOfIt. I'm pretty sure this story would never have been published without you. Well, everyone, here we go. This story is part of the Plush Toy Collaboration. :)