Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gwen. Middle Earth belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and the Gaming Piece belongs to a Norse god named Heimdall.

A/N: so this is my first attempt at a LotR fic, it's kind of a parody and kind of not... after this introductory chapters, they should get quite a bit longer, though I don't know how often I'll be updating (hopefully at least once a week, possibly quite a bit more). This is set after the War ofthe Ring. PLEASE review and tell me whether or not I should continue!


"POERDH (Gaming Piece)--One of the most mysterious of the Runes, it has never been translated. However, in mystic tradition the 'gaming piece' refers to the lawful and rightful outcome of the wearer's fate or destiny."

--The Enchanted Glyph, Rune Meanings


Chapter One: Don't Call Me Mary Sue

The first thing you need to know if you're going to read this story is that I am one of you. That's right, I, Gwenith Amelia Sherbourn, am a writer of fanfiction. Well... I was. This isn't fanfiction; this is an autobiography. So technically I don't even know why I'm posting it here... oh well.

I feel relatively secure saying that if a fanfic writer got one wish, it would be to go into some fictional world, to become a part of the stories they love enough to weave tales about. At least, I know I felt that way. I was your pretty stereotypical fanfic writer—mostly Harry Potter, dabbled in Pirates of the Caribbean, even attempted a fic about the Phantom of the Opera once. I read almost as much as I wrote, too; I loved to discover new worlds in others' writings, whether they were published and original or... 'borrowed' for fanfiction.

But the one thing I hated more than anything else, was a Mary Sue.

I know, aren't I just little Miss Potty Mouth?

I'm sure that even as you're reading this, the cogs are turning in your mind, and you're coming up with a thousand and one different possibilities for the reasoning behind naming the introductory chapter of my new story (ahem, autobiography, thank you very much) Don't Call Me Mary Sue. And I'm sure that at least one of you has hit on the real logic driving that decision.

But before I reveal the truth, I need to tell you a little story.

My favorite relative has always been my great-aunt, whom I call Hester. She's this batty, bitchy old woman who gives as good as she gets no matter who's on the receiving end, and she just so happens to have a soft spot for her anti-social, nonconformist great-niece. (That's me, by the way).

Hester also has a rather obsessive fascination for the occult—and she's a pack rat at that.

This means that, one absolutely gorgeous day in June, I found myself drafted into cleaning out her attic. It wasn't so bad; the windows were open, there was a nice cross-breeze, and I was blasting Beethoven as I worked (yep, I'm a certifiable geek, in case you hadn't noticed). Plus Hester kept me supplied with fresh lemonade and her to-die-for mincemeat cookies. But the best perk of all was that as payment, I could keep anything I found up there that I liked.

I've always had rather odd taste, myself. Mostly I wear what 'speaks' to me—you know, like when you walk into the store and that art-deco inspired tee is just screaming at you, 'Choose me! Choose me!' So when I saw the necklace, I automatically knew what I wanted to keep.

It had a very medieval air about it; made of what looked (and felt) like iron, it hung on a plain black cord. The only thing special about it was the rune embedded into its smooth, hard surface.

When Hester came up the next time, I asked her about it.

"That's poerdh," she said. "The gaming piece. It was never given a definitive translation, but it is believed to help the wearer find their true destiny."

Nothing could have appealed to a romantic like myself more. The afternoon passed in a blur of classical music, lemonade, and dust bunnies, and by the time I finished, it was almost supper time. I took the gaming piece out of my pocket and pulled it down over my head, smiling, and rose to go downstairs—my stomach currently had my spine in a stranglehold in its desperation for food.

Only, I had forgotten that before I stood, I was kneeling under the slant of the roof. I hit my head.

Hard.

And that, kiddies, is how I, Gwenith Amelia Sherbourn (you can call me Gwen), ended up in Middle Earth.