Not a Winner, But Not a Loser, Either

My entry for Natalie Whipple's contest didn't win, but I still like it enough that I wanted to share it with you. Admire Natalie's gorgeous Prismacolor sketch for a while, then check out the scene I wrote to go along with it:

Bright yellow sunlight, strong for this time of year, roasted the faerie’s wings as she approached the window. Why did the sun insist on shining even when the worlds were falling apart?

“What are you doing, Lego Lass?” she snapped as she alighted on the ledge.

The fair-haired elf didn’t even turn. “What does it look like, Feya?”

The faerie flitted into the cabin, aquamarine wings beating in a blur. “You can’t still be playing with those silly blocks.”

“I don’t see why not.” Lego Lass added another Lego to her model--of the ruined Minas Morgul, Feya noted with disgust. “Morgoth the Wise has kindly agreed to sponsor me. Says I have real talent.”

“That’s not the point.” Feya zipped back to the window and stabbed a finger southward. “The point is, the bridge between the worlds is breaking. And you’re the only being who can fix it.”

“Gloigan’s the Master Builder in these parts,” Lego Lass replied, plucking another Lego from her heap. “I’m no dwarf.”

Quick as a spell, Feya shot across the room and knocked the block away. “Stop this, Lego Lass! Stop acting like this is none of your affair. The bridge needs Elven magic. Besides, without it, there’ll be no more of these stupid Earthly toys.”

Lego Lass just picked up another Lego.

Feya could only sputter. “But you’re a part of this world!” she cried, flying dangerously close to the elf and her tower, within swatting distance. “Aren’t you?” And with that, she ripped one of its spires off.

That was enough: Lego Lass froze, then paled, then trembled. “It doesn’t seem like it,” she whispered, but then her cheeks began to flush. “It doesn’t seem like I’ve ever belonged to this place!” With a savage shriek, she ripped another spire from its base. “First Mother won’t even come up with another name for me, just calls me after my saintly older brother! And then Mr. Tolkien doesn’t even mention--doesn’t even mention--that I exist at all!”

“At least he didn’t overlook your entire species,” Feya muttered, but the elf didn’t seem to hear her.

“I built the bridge that brought him here!” Lego Lass was raving. “I built the bridge that took him home! I did! It was mine, my own, my--”

“You know,” Feya interrupted, calmly inspecting her fingernail, “who you sound like.” She looked up from her cuticle long enough to catch the elf’s eye. “Don’t you?”

Lego Lass froze again, paled again, and dropped the spire. “What am I doing?” she mumbled into her hands, long blond hair falling across her face. When she finally raised her head, her cheeks were red and splotchy, but her eyes were resolute. “What do I have to do?”

Feya fluttered over and, when Lego Lass held out her hand, settled on her palm. “I think you already know,” she said, glowing suddenly like one of Mr. Tolkien’s flashlights. Like a beacon. “Your satchel’s by the door.”

It's my playful homage to the genre's creator, as well as the first thing I thought of when I saw that elf. (“Wow, she looks like she could be Legolas's kid sister!”) Hope you enjoyed:)