Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this fiction are the property of their creators, Joss Whedon and J.R.R. Tolkien. I’m only playing with them for a little while. I own nothing but the pickle currently half-eaten on my fork. Oh, and the fork. So if you want it, you’ll have to hurry.
Rating- 13 for some language and violence.
Summary: The Fellowship is desperate for their mission to succeed. Desperate enough to call for help.
Spoilers: This is sort of AU canon-wise. I’ve set it in Buffy season 7. So Willow is back from England, Anya is not a demon and Tara is still dead. But none of the Potentials are involved in any way. The same goes for Angel. Everything going on in these ‘verses is sort of being disregarded. For LOTR, it is just after the Council of Elrond has taken place and before they set off from Rivendell.
A/N- This was my reaction to the spate of Buffy/ LOTR crossovers. Although a lot of them are well written, and I enjoy them, this just popped into my head. This will be a short fiction, but please enjoy.
The scratching of the quill was the predominant sound in the airy room. Naturally, the call of birds sounding to one another, the rush of the waterfall, the faint sound of chatter; laughter and singing were all present. But all muted in the face of the figures concentration. The letter was required immediately. It had to be sent without delay. They had already lost so much time. The figure could feel time slipping through his fingers, even though he’d tried assuring others that there was time still. Time to save all that they’d built and created.
With a long-suffering sigh, the figure re-read what he’d just written. Even though it was a plea for help, he didn’t want the tone to be too demanding or overbearing. It was simple, to the point and slightly vague as to what they required. Hopefully, it would strike the fancy of those he meant it to be sent to. For yes, he was going to send multiple copies. He might have been a foolish old man, but not so foolish as to pin his hopes on any one person. He’d already reserved that for a small, impossibly brave Hobbit.
A quick nod to himself, approving what he’d decided upon. He laid the sheaf of parchment on the table he was seated at. He reached for the staff he kept near to hand at all times. More than a walking staff; it was a center of his power. His aging hands gently stroked the spot worn smooth through countless ages of handling. There was a sheen to that one spot where it fell easily to hand. Generation upon generation had passed and the oils of his flesh had worked at the wood, breaking it down, taming it to the groove of his palm and the fingers that wrapped around it.
The figure stood, barely needing the staff to steady him. He chose ten of the freshest pieces of parchment available to him and spread them around the letter. Once done, his eyes narrowed in concentration. With softly spoken words, the letter copied itself to the new parchments, neatening themselves as they went. Inkblots disappeared, smudges evaporated, leaving each letter clean, professional looking. The figure smiled as he watched the process. In his entire long years, he’d never gotten the hang of writing neatly with ink. Magic was quite a different story.
He waited a moment before the next stage of his plan. And as he did, the sounds, muted, began to come alive again. Chief among them was the soft footfall of an approaching figure. He knew instinctively whom those footsteps belonged to. With a grimace, he raised his staff again, before more objections would be forced upon his ears. The door swung open just as the last flare of light consumed the letters.
"I take it you are done Gandalf?" came the elegantly cultured voice of doom.
"Yes my Lord Elrond," the wizard smiled briefly. It had taken many hours arguing in the refrained way they had, to allow Rivendell to become the center of this adventure in advertising. And still the Elven Lord was reluctant, even though permission had obviously been granted. "The letters, they have been sent."
"I hope you know what you are doing," Lord Elrond sighed as he took in the table cluttered with discarded attempts at the plea Gandalf had made.
So do I, old friend."