The Accounting by elwen of the hidden valley

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Story Notes:

I don't own the people or the world (except Tyaro).  They belong to JRR Tolkien and this is fanfic set within the boundaries of his Middle earth.  This is a merciless mix of film and book, blended together with my own wild imagination.

Olorin had been summoned.  He disliked being summoned.  The last time it happened he had been uprooted from his comfortable home and sent over the sea, with nothing but a set of ridiculous clothes (who wears long black boots and silver scarves nowadays?) and a rather battered staff that had definitely seen better days.  Fortunately, once in the East he had been more or less left to his own devices for most of the time.  Curumo had been a tad annoying towards the end but his appointment as White Wizard could, with hindsight, most kindly be described as unfortunate. 

But now came the accounting . . . literally.

Master Accountant Tyaro opened the folder on his desk and began to shuffle papers whilst Olorin stared, bored, out of the window.  Finally the clerk selected a document and laid it precisely before him.  “You are aware that all items supplied for your duties in the East must be accounted for upon your return?”

Olorin nodded, his reply a little impatient.  “Yes.  Yes.  And I have returned all the equipment.  You have the list there, I believe.”  His reply may have been a little sharp but wizards were known for their irascible nature and after taking on that mantle for hundreds of years he was finding it a little difficult to let it go.

Tyaro pursed his lips, slipping on his glasses to read.  “Item . . . one staff . . . wizard for the use of . . . white.”  He looked over the top of his glasses pointedly, as though expecting this to make the reason for this meeting crystal clear.

Olorin only raised his brows, wishing for a moment that they were as bushy as they had once been.  The action did not carry the same effect when they were delicately winged.  “Yes.  That is correct.”

Tyaro’s lips thinned and he selected more pieces of paper from the folder, laying them out in a perfectly spaced line across his desk.  “But where are the rest?” he demanded as he swept his hand expansively along the line.

Olorin blinked.  “What, ‘rest’?”

If Tyaro’s lips thinned any further they were in danger of disappearing completely.  “Item . . . one staff . . . spiked.  This appears to be missing from your inventory.”

Olorin’s eyes grew distant as he thought back.  “Aaaah.  That was lost in the destruction of Dol Guldur.”

Tyaro rifled through the file once more and Olorin forced himself to sit patiently.  Having reached the bottom of the file, the Master Accountant returned his attention to his prey.  “I have received no closure notice on its disposal.  When did you submit the form?”

“I was a little busy at the time.  I needed to deal with an unfortunate clash of races outside Erebor.”

Tyaro frowned, reaching into a drawer and producing a form that he pushed toward the erstwhile wizard.  “Any equipment lost or damaged must be reported immediately using a form W1000.”  He paused for dramatic effect before adding, “In triplicate.  In view of potential postal delays between East and West it is permissible to complete the form now.”

Olorin decided it would cost him little to submit meekly and began to fold it prior to putting it in his pocket, but the accountant lifted a hand. 

“I have received a form W1000 from Aiwendil, however.   In it he stated that he gave you his staff at some point and requested a replacement on form W1000N.  This staff does not appear in your inventory, either.”

Olorin sighed.  “I did not have time to submit a form to you requesting a replacement.  Things were becoming a little busy . . . the altercation I just mentioned?  It was faulty when I received it anyway.  It took me nearly sixty years to repair.”

Tyaro looked positively scandalised.  “You repaired it yourself?  You do realise that invalidates the warranty?  You will need to submit a form W1000R to get that repair checked and also a W1000T to register the transfer of ownership.”  He began to rummage in the drawer, muttering under his breath about darned DIY’ers and produced the requisite forms. 

Olorin cleared his throat.  “You did get the W1000N from Elrond did you not?  The form for a replacement.”

Again, Tyaro scowled.  “Yes.  But I did not receive your W1000 . . . again!  What happened to that one?”

“Curumo took it.  We were not on the best of terms at the time.  He locked me out on the roof of his tower.  It was raining, I recall.  I got rather wet.”

The clerk took a moment to consult various documents.  “Ah.  That one we have . . . no thanks to you I may add.  The High King discovered it when clearing out Curumo effects from the Tower of Orthanc and dispatched it on the next ship.”

Olorin held back a smirk.  “I am afraid that the staff you sent me via Imladris was destroyed too.”

Tyaro slammed the drawer and squeeked, “What?”

Olorin was actually beginning to enjoy himself now.  “Yes.   A Balrog ate it.”

For several moments Tyaro’s mouth opened and shut, but no sound issued forth.  Then he opened his drawer, wordlessly slamming a form W1000 upon the desk before Olorin, who accepted it with a mild expression and folded it with the others.

“I have the W1000N from Alatariel regarding the white staff.  I trust you have not needed to make any running repairs upon it also?”  Tyaro’s hand hovered above the open drawer.

Olorin smiled.  “No.  That one worked perfectly until it was destroyed by the Witch King.”

Tyaro dropped his head into his hands for a moment before taking a deep breath and rummaging in his drawer. 

Olorin grinned outright.  “That will be another W1000,” he supplied helpfully.  “As I received the replacement only months before sailing can I take it that you received the W1000N?”

The aforementioned form was slammed upon the desk.  “Yes.  I believe the Lord Celeborn requested that one,” Tyaro ground out through clenched teeth.

“And it is returned as it was received.  I trust there will be no warranty problems as it saw very little use.” 

Tyaro threw up both hands to forestall further comment.  “It is fine.”

“Oh good.  Will that be all?”  Olorin gave up trying to fit all the papers into his pocket.

Tyaro’s eyes narrowed and he drew out another form from his line-up.  “Item  . . . one hat . . . grey, pointed.”

Olorin chuckled.  He had never liked that hat, or should that be “hats”?



Tyaro – Quenya – Actor/doer/agent (Work with me here.  I don’t think there’s a Quenya word for the kind of clerk I needed for this tale.)

DIY – Do It Yourself


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