30. The State of Evil
“What the heck happened to all my time?” Dot complained one late night as they were deep in books at the library, surrounded by almost all the other students.
“You used it to stalk Legolas, remember?” Lina replied, flipping a page.
“Shut up. You weren't any better, you know. But vacation will be nice – a whole fortnight off, how *nice* of them to give us so much time. Hah! And I suppose you will be off somewhere with Gimli that whole two weeks?”
Lina only chuckled softly, looking through her platonic love notes.
“I shouldn't have lent my notes to Rain and Kala,” she remarked. “Every time I have written Sam's name, she has put a heart around his name. And Kala has written 'Frodo is evil' at the bottom of all the pages.”
“Frodo? Adorable little hobbit Frodo?”
“Didn't you say just a moment ago that he and Sam were evil for giving you an exam in the first place?”
“Shut up, or I will hit you with my 'All You Need to Know About Elves' book.”
“The one you need to have a crane to lift?”
RollFeet nibbled affectionately at the notes, while BreadLegs and Toey (he had promised to not spread bad spelling for the day, though) were somewhere under the desk. Quite a little peaceful afternoon, really, which usually meant things would start exploding any moment. Too quiet was never a good sign.
Lina just didn't quite expect it to come in the shape of the Nazgûls walking in, as sinister as always, except that one of them looked so paled he was hardly black at all.
“What's up with them?” Tabby asked, looking as if she was ready to flick her gum at them.
“Nazgûl Three eat cooking of Gandalf's,” one of the Nazgûl said. “Beginning to turn white. Not scary. We look for book how to fix it. Sauron say Nazgûl cannot ask Gandalf for help. That not evil.”
“Okay then,” Lina muttered, shaking her head. The Nazgûl in question did seem to turn whiter as she regarded him. “Why not ask Saruman?”
“Saruman busy trying to turn Witch King into proper Nazgûl again.”
“Oh…” Lina was not quite sure she liked that prospect. He was hard enough to avoid when he was a wall, and actually walking around… She shuddered.
“How are we supposed to pass all this?” Dot complained. “Sauron's probably flunk us all just to prove he is evil, Elrond requires encyclopaedia knowledge, Aragorn's wilderness expedition will probably have us all eaten by wild wolves, and platonic love is so *hard*.”
“At least no What's In a Name? exam,” Lina replied.
“Oh yeah, because we'll get that subject next semester also. Real comforting.”
“Hey, might lead to less mini-Balrogs so you can more easily sneak into the staff section.”
“There's an idea,” Dot said dreamily. “That new one – Celebrain – ate my 'Enjoying Platonic Love' book, and I was just passing by!”
Lina just grinned, and made a little heart of her own in the notes. Not with Sam's name, though.
“Grin it up, Miss Free-Access. One of these days someone will be desperate to make you lead them into that section under threat of 'urple-dom'.”
“Oh, Cerridwyn already tried that, threatening to paint me urple. Didn't go very well. Grimli and Legoals, the wonder duo, were on guard.” Lina sniggered. “They have the biggest catch record, you know. And they don't appreciate being spilt urple pain on.”
“Yeah. There's a prize for whoever catches the most people trying to sneak in, actually.”
“What's the prize?”
“A little mini-abyss to rule.”
They both threw a look at the poor whitening Nazgûl, who were starting to look like the Ice Cream-Nazgûl.
“Why did he eat it anyway? Gandalf's cooking is like a environmental threat.”
The Ice Cream-Nazgûl sent her a sour look. “Little halflings say Nazgûl Three no dare. Hah! Nazgûl Three always dare.”
“The quality of evil minions these days,” Gami (sitting at the table behind) said in a sad voice, shaking her head.
“Disgraceful, really,” Knight Obi added. “The Orcish Inquisition is more likely to kill people with laughter than fear.”
The pair (both in the Sisterhood of Evil, naturally) sent each other a dark look.
“The state of evil is a sad story, a sad story indeed.”
“How sad,” Lina muttered dryly, and flipped to another page. Her mind wasn't really on reading anyway, lost in daydreams (rather nice daydreams, too). She hardly noticed the sudden excitement of the Nazgûls or their departure, until Dot suddenly poked her.
“Saruman came and said he had restored the Witch King!”
“Want to go see?”
They trailed after the Nazgûls, who were muttering in excited voices (except for the gloomy looking Ice Cream-Nazgûl, who were muttering about how he had nothing matching to white).
As soon as they reached the toilets however, the excitement died down. Instead there was a long, amazed silence. A silence that speaks volumes, in this case volumes of astonishment.
For there, among all the toilets, stood the Witch King (or what Lina guessed was the Witch King)– and whatever Sarman had done, it had not improved on the situation. Quite the contrary.
“What?” the Witch King asked, noticing the stares. “Saruman, you said I was restored.”
“Dude,” Knight Obi said slowly. “You've become a toilet!”
The wizard, leaning against one of the stalls, looked smug.
“Nice handiwork, is it not? Notice how the lid has his face? Don't worry, you will feel like a toilet soon enough. I should have perhaps mentioned that I work for Morgoth now. Nothing personal. I go where the evilest wind blows.”
“Evil backstabbing evil,” Knight Obi said, and smiled. “Now's *that's* more like it!”
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.