The Fifth Age
By Glorfindel's Girl
Chapter 1: Perhaps Not a Legend
Disclaimer: I don't own Middle Earth or anyone in it. The Tolkien Estate does. I, however, own all characters in here that aren't Tolkien's. Use them if you want, just give me credit for creating them. Chris, Sarah, Adrienne, and several other people in here like to think that they own themselves. If you want to use them in a story, you'll have to take it up with them. The Hideous Orange Blanket is mine. You cannot use it. Period. ^_^
Author's Note: Gentle Readers: the story that follows is one written for sheer grins. Meaning that it is a combination personal fantasy (c'mon…everyone's entitled to one!), stress relief, creative outlet, and great practice in making up a story as I go along. I mean, really. One does get tired of trying to pound out intricate, well-written Silmarillion based fanfiction. And I figured that since I've been writing this monster, I might as well start posting it. Hopefully, it will prove to be mildly entertaining, or at least provide a closer and amusing look into my insane personal life. If nothing else, you'll get to experience the kind of stuff I think about on a daily basis. But mostly during my 8:00 AM American History class when I'm still half awake and consequently drawing bizarre connections between the Declaration of Independence and the Curse of Mandos. The end result here is a story that is at the same time pretty serious and well-written, but also at times rather silly. But no matter what the mood – serious or fall-down funny – I guarantee you'll have a good time. Feel free to drop me a review or a flame (which I will promptly laugh at, print out, and give to Adrienne to line Skittles' – the hyperactive radioactive green parrot's - cage with) or whatever. Enjoy!
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Great Haywood, Staffordshire, England. Early May of 1916
"Edith, I'm so sure of it. If only I could prove it…it could completely shift the way…"
"Ronald," the young woman replied firmly, "If only I could prove it, I could say that pigs once had wings, or that the sky is green!" She smiled at her husband's somewhat annoyed expression. "I love you, but quite honestly, you're crazy."
Ronald shook his head as he took his pipe from the side table and filled it with tobacco. He lit it, and puffed thoughtfully for a moment, sinking back against the cushioned back of his chair. "Still," he said after a long moment, "You have to admit the similarities between the mythologies…in cultures separated by time and distance. What if…just what if there was more to it than myth? If I could only conclusively tie it together somehow…"
Edith pushed her long, raven-dark hair over her shoulder. "Personally? I believe that you've spent entirely too much time at Oxford. Too much studying. It's a wonderful theory, but without proof, it's really not much," she replied with a gentle smile. "And you really can't expect proof to just fall out of the sky."
There was a soft rap on the door, and the young couple looked up to find Edith's cousin, Jennie standing in the doorway. "There's someone to see you, John," she said, addressing Ronald. She was the only person in the household who addressed Ronald by his first name. "Some professor or other. Says they've got something very urgent for you."
"Well by all means show him in!" Ronald exclaimed, putting his pipe out and standing up. Edith stood as well, straightening her skirt and attempting to arrange her hair.
"Perhaps they decided to accept your poem after all, Ronald!" she whispered excitedly. But it was not an antiquated scholar, bent by long years of studying that Jennie showed into the room, but a tall young woman, appearing to be no older than Edith. She wore a hand-tailored grey jacket over her mid-length skirt and blouse, and a pair of simple flats. Her gleaming dark hair was pinned in a heavy coil atop her head, and she had absolutely the most shocking eyes Ronald had ever seen. A bright, intense green-grey. She was carrying an old briefcase in one hand.
"John Tolkien, I presume?" she asked with a smile, extending her hand to Ronald. She had a soft accent, which Ronald could not quite place. He nodded as he shook her hand.
"Yes, I am," he replied.
"And you must be Ms. Edith Tolkien," the young woman said, turning her gaze to Ronald's wife.
"Yes," Edith replied. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss…."
"Cervantes," the woman replied. "Kathleen Cervantes. I am from the literature department at Princeton University in the United States. Please, call me Kathleen."
"Please, have a seat," Ronald said. "What may I do for you, Ms. Kathleen?"
"I believe I may have something of interest to you," she replied, setting her briefcase on her lap. "You are currently working on a project attempting to link several different mythologies to one common, 'lost', if I may call it, mythology. Furthermore, you believe that this common mythology is in fact not a mythology, but a missing chapter from history, am I correct?"
Ronald stared at her in shock. "How do you know this?" he asked, sinking down into a chair. Edith put her hand on his shoulder. Kathleen just smiled. A gentle smile, not a threatening one.
"I have connections. But as I was saying, I believe I have something that would interest you." With this, she opened her briefcase and removed four large, time worn, and battered books. Two were covered in black leather, one appeared to have been green at one time, and the fourth was bound in red leather. Kathleen set the briefcase aside, and handed the books to Ronald.
"The Red Book of Westmarch" he read, opening the red book to the first page. He thumbed gently through the book, handling the time-worn pages with care and reverence. He set it aside, and did the same to the other three volumes. When he was finished, he looked up at Kathleen with amazement.
"Where did you find these?" he asked.
"They were donated to the head of our literature department as 'articles of curiosity' by one of our European benefactors. The copy of the Red Book is the oldest of the four, though the text of the other three is believed to pre-date the Old Testament. These four books are translations completed in the mid 13th century," Kathleen replied. She reached into her briefcase once more and removed several loose sheets of parchment paper covered with curious writings. "These are a sample of pages from the original, un-translated work. Our scholars were unable to identify the language system."
Ronald took the pages from her grasp gently and surveyed them for a moment. "Why are you doing this?" he asked finally, setting the papers aside with a sigh. "What is the catch?"
"No catch," Kathleen replied, shutting her briefcase. "Just call it a professional curiosity, if you will. I want to see what you can do with these books. Very amusing for me, very good for you, and profitable too, very likely," she said with a strangely mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
"Now," she began again, standing, "It has been a pleasure speaking with you, but I really must be going." She glanced up at a handsome clock perched on the mantle. "I am afraid that I've a train to catch in less than a quarter of an hour."
Ronald stood, and shook the young woman's hand, still in a state of shock. Kathleen then smiled and nodded at Edith, who returned the gesture, and walked briskly out of the room, escorted by Jennie.
"Ronald," Edith began, kneeling down beside her husband's chair. Ronald waved a hand in the air to quiet her as he opened one of the books covered in black leather.
"There is no Kathleen Cervantes in the literature department at Princeton University," he said softly.
"What? Then who was she?" Edith asked.
"I don't know. I would almost think that this is some sort of elaborate prank. If it is, I must commend the proprietor of it, because they have far exceeded my skills in practical jokes. And yet…something tells me that this is very, very real."
"What does it say?" Edith asked, sitting down at Ronald's feet like a child. He turned a few pages in the book, then began to read, his voice rich and melodious.
"The Tale of Beren, son of Barahair, and Lúthien, called Tinúviel."
"Read it to me," Edith replied, laying her head against the arm of the chair. Ronald laid his hand upon her head, then settled back for an afternoon of story-telling.
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Endnotes: Well…did you figure out who Ronald was before I told you? ^_^ This chapter is actually, of all things, historically accurate (well, except for the whole book thing, of course). After J.R.R. Tolkien and Edith Bratt were married, they resided in Great Haywood, Staffordshire, England with Edith's elder cousin, Jennie, for a short period until June of 1916 when Tolkien was recalled to the military. It was shortly after his recall into the military that he began work on his first written drafts of what would later become the Silmarillion. Also, very few people called Tolkien by his first name, John. His family and wife almost without exception addressed him by his middle name, Ronald. There is also a reason I felt it necessary that the story he read to Edith was that of Beren and Luthien. Tolkien, in real life, based the characters of Beren and Luthien upon himself and Edith, seeing their tale as somewhat of a metaphor of their own love. And thirdly, I dropped a great allusion to The Hobbit in this chapter. Did you find it (no, it's not the Red Book)?