Hi everyone! I'm Ara and I write a lot of LotR parodies. :)

I'm still plotting out what kinds of misadventures I'm going to put poor Legolas and Aragorn through this time but it has certainly been fun to write so far!

Being a parody, this fic is rather silly but no offence is intended.

Enjoy and please drop a review when you get to the end!

Legolas' Wonderful Idea

"LEGGYYYYYYYYY—AAAAGHHH!" screamed the young woman, whose enthusiastic bounding across the field towards her favourite blond Elf had been arrested by the fact that said Elf now had a nocked arrow pointing at her.

In her version of things, Jada was meant to have been espied by Legolas standing upon a hill outside of Minas Tirith, singing and letting her long dark curls fly about her in the wind. And Legolas being instantly enamoured was to stand about until she noticed him and came flying into his arms.

So this whole thing with Legolas aiming a projectile weapon at her wasn't meant to happen.

As a result she had no idea what to do and in a fit of confusion started running backwards.

Bored, Legolas released the arrow with a twang and she crumpled in a heap to the ground.

Someone slammed against his back and he staggered. It was Aragorn, sword drawn, who was busy ramming a sword through a Sue virtually indistinguishable from the first.

"Legolas, do you—do you ever get tired of this?" the King huffed, ignoring the Sue squirming on the other end of Andúril. "All this pointless slaughter?"

"No." Legolas glanced down as the Sue slid off the sword and flopped lifeless to the soft earth. His eyes met that of his friend's, and Aragorn was certain that the guilt that shone there was reflected in his own. "Although it does seem a bit…out-of-character."

Aragorn wiped sticky blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. Glancing at it, he frowned at the glittery bits that shone amid the red and realised that in the light the blood seemed to have a bright pink sheen to it. Why did these things always bleed irregular colours? "When I ascended to the High Kingship, I knew that a life of ease would not be my portion," he said regretfully, wiping his hand against his tunic. "Yet I little knew that killing off these nuisances would form so much a part of my service to the united realms. I honestly thought my hunting days were come to an end. Whence do they come, anyway?"

"I believe," answered Legolas flatly, "that, like the Balrogs, they were spawn of Angband who somehow managed to escape the justice of the Valar."

"They are not quite that evil." Crouching to the ground, he began cleaning the blood from his sword. Even the grass seemed to be trying to run from the taint, parting in the wind and making it very difficult for Aragorn to get the pink residue off. "Legolas, mellon nin, I tire of putting the legendary sword of my forefathers, the very one that first despoiled the Dark Lord of his power, to such unholy uses as the gutting of these Merry Soup people."

"Mary Sues," corrected Legolas, though the foreign word felt strange upon his tongue. "There must be some way of delegating the responsibility. You are High King, Faramir a Prince of Ithilien." He waved an arm expansively. "You cannot be expected to dash out the door every time a girl falls into Middle-Earth, or Queen Arwen's long-lost twin sister enters the city unbidden, or some daughter of Denethor who has been lurking somewhere in the tombs since the War ended suddenly makes an appearance."

"You are right, of course," sighed Aragorn as he rose to his feet. "Do you have any ideas?"

Legolas suddenly brightened. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said, stepping over one of the corpses to turn and face Aragorn. "What if we could actually do something with these girls?"

"Aside from sending them south and inflicting them on the Haradrim?" said Aragorn doubtfully. "I fear such a move would not be good for our trade agreement."

"No, no – I seek not to ruin your trade agreement! What I mean is that – what if we could help them somehow?" They turned towards the ancient city and set off across the fields. "What if we could put our own knowledge to more noble purpose? Lessen the chances of their doing something dreadful by ensuring that they have no chance to wreak havoc?"

"I do not know that there is any operable dungeon in Minas Tirith that could contain them."

"Ai, no!" Legolas sighed in frustration, evidently struggling to articulate his thoughts. "A training program of sorts. Lessons in – I know not. How to be less annoying."

"You mean character development?" asked Aragorn, frowning as Legolas bent to pluck the arrow out of a stray body lying about on the Pelennor. There were plenty of fletchers in Minas Tirith and Ithilien but Legolas was always careful to retrieve his arrows wherever possible.

"Yes! And something that will teach them how to adapt to life in Middle-Earth." With a slight squelch the arrow came free and Legolas waved it emphatically. "How to live happily without the need to entice the nearest Elf to propose, that wielding a sword is not as easy as it looks, why one does not simply walk into Mordor—"

"I believe you're onto something," said the High King slowly, scratching at his stubble in thought. "I would certainly rather accommodate these people somehow than have to keep brutally murdering them. I do have concerns about where they will all go, though."

"We could put them in a reserve?" suggested Legolas cheerfully. "If they all get along, all is well. If they kill each other, then we will have solved the problem with very little effort." His eyes twinkled.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "So much for nobility." They reached the gates of the ancient Tower of Guard and the heavily repaired doors yawned open to greet them.


It was decided later that evening, despite Aragorn's protestations that Legolas would have enough on his hands managing Ithilien alongside Faramir, that Legolas would be the one to trial the training program.

"I am perfectly able to manage," Legolas insisted for the tenth time. "I am well aware of the challenges involved. If not I, then who else? Besides," he added, "it'll be fun!"

Aragorn sighed. "Very well. But you must at least allow me to take some of the burden of instruction upon myself. I will not have you doing everything yourself."

Legolas gave him an affectionate smile. "Ever you seek to look after the interests of others, even at your own expense."

"And you," answered Aragorn, smiling back, "will wear yourself out doing much the same thing." He looked pensively out the window into the night. "I think I shall speak with Gimli – perhaps he would be interested in helping."

Stretching and rising from his seat, Legolas replied, "My dear friend has been muttering through his beard about how bored he is for months. He will not be long in the persuading."


By arts which not even Legolas himself understood, he spread the message that very night. Hidden in a heavy chest was a small round object of a dark, glassy material whose origins had long been forgotten. It was an Eighth Palantír he had confiscated off some young man who had claimed he was Gandalf's brother.

This the Elf eagerly removed from its box and held up a piece of parchment in front of it, across which was written in flowing Tengwar the following cheery advertisement (and which, unbeknownst to him, translated rather badly in his efforts to use idiomatic speech):

Are you truly satisfied with being the most beautiful and talented and angst-ridden damsel/gentleman in the world? Do you wish to gain more out of your experience upon the shores of Ennor? Learn how to get your pickle out of a rut with my 30-day program!

You will learn valuable lessons such as:

What it's really like to camp out in the wild

Why your magical powers cannot exist in Middle-Earth

How to subsist on maggoty bread for more than three stinking days

And so much more!

You only get out what you put your best foot in. So sign up today and start your journey to being a normal and less dislikeable character!




And it did not take long for the first responses to start coming in.