"I warned you about that mascara."
Maude Winters was sat in front of a broad, gem-stone adorned mirror with her hands clasped primly in her lap. In her reflection, she observed her left eye, which was indeed becoming increasingly red and irritated; the vessels had spattered toward the iris, giving her the slightest appearance of a woman dabbling in one of the lower-class narcotics, which was certainly not how she wished to be presented at a gala filled with prospective philanthropists from around Europe.
"Oh, no-one pays any mind to the expiry date," she proclaimed in her own defence, taking a moment to swat her hands about absently before returning them to her lap. "Least of all with make-up. I'd be a little more anxious about food ..."
"I should hope so!"
The other young woman fussing over her was Colette McKinnick, one of the leading dancers in their company, and one of the finest ballet dancers in the country. Maude had never found the heart to envy Colette, unlike many of the other dancers; a lack of malice which stemmed from the fact that Colette had been the only one to greet her with any sort of amiable intention upon her initial recruitment. Besides, she was far more experienced than Maude was, and never failed to offer a helping hand when it was needed.
And it was most certainly needed at that moment.
"I look ridiculous!" Maude exasperated, throwing her head back to sulk at the woman behind her.
"You look marvellous," said Colette matter-of-factly. "Your eye looks ridiculous."
"Well, this eye is part of my face. There's not much I can do about that."
"Never fear, my love!" She grabbed her hand-bag from the dressing table and removed from it a small glass bottle. "This, my dear Maude, is the saviour of many sleepless nights: eye drops. They work wonders on red eyes ..."
Warily, Maude turned in her chair to eye the bottle, asking, "Do they work on the product of anything other than exhaustion?" And, when Colette nodded, "Are you sure?"
Colette waved her hand dismissively and opened the bottle, before taking hold of Maude's head and tilting it back for better access. Ordering the younger woman to hold still, she carefully poured a fraction of its contents in to her eye, prompting a blinking frenzy and a stream of quietly uttered swear words. Then Colette, feeling rather accomplished, sealed the cap firmly atop the bottle once more, and placed it back in her bag. Naturally, with her stinging eye, Maude was feeling less than accomplished, and took a moment to glare at her as she did so.
"A warning might have been nice."
"I said eye drops, didn't I? That would suggest some discomfort, I imagine."
Grumbling, Maude stood up and peered in the mirror once more. If the drops acted quickly, she would look presentable soon enough, and would hopefully pique the interest of the visiting directors; although, if she didn't, she was sure that at least one of the others would. They were a formidable company, with many impressive dancers, and in retrospect it seemed silly of her to worry about her bloodshot eye. Nonetheless, she wished that their artistic director, Kevin, hadn't been so ardent about impressions. Truthfully, nothing made Maude feel more inadequate than the pressure to do so.
"We'd better hurry," said Colette suddenly, ushering her friend out of the dressing room. "Let's go and get Kevin his Swan Lake funds."
A successful production of Swan Lake was an old dream of Kevin's, much to the dismay of many dancers in the company. As beautiful and prestigious as that particular show was, it was incredibly tedious and overdone. Maude was one such dancer who held this firm belief, and had once suggested that perhaps the company conduct their own show, but the notion saw her part in the following show significantly reduced. She hadn't made that mistake since.
However, whether it was for the occasion or simply down to a good mood, Kevin greeted both women with a grand smile and opening arms when they made their appearance in the gala hall. Although, it all became too clear what his intentions were when he immediately moved on to introduce Colette to Monsieur Moreau, a wealthy Frenchman known for his love of theatre and ballet, and the generous donations he often made to such factions as this one. Maude was pushed aside in an instant, and sombrely made her way over to the back of the hall, away from the mingling crowds.
As she watched them, she felt her heart sink. The social aspects of her job were tiring and unwelcome; there was never any proletariat company at the public events they held, and Maude couldn't wriggle her way into the elite. She quite felt like Billy Elliot, half of the time, though she well understood that his struggles were incomparable to her own. Nonetheless, she had struggled, and had put up a wonderful fight, as Colette had once said. You're a fine dancer, Maude, and I think the world deserves to see that. But the world never would, she was sure.
Rather than wallowing in self-pity any longer, Maude exited the hall and headed toward the main stage. She liked to linger there often, and rifle through the various sets they had used in the past. Her particular favourite was Don Quixote, which they had performed biweekly for some time the previous year. It was the only show for which a critic had actually mentioned her name, and complimented her performance. Despite being humbled by it, she couldn't quite quash the great pleasure she took in her mother framing the article, and placing it on show in her parents' living room. Her family had always supported her, and her mother and grandmother did their best to come to every possible show available to them.
Maude was so lost in her own thoughts that she nearly missed an unfamiliar set piece adjacent to the costume department. It was a vast thing, not only a background but with hanging leaves and branches that were cold to the touch. She was surprised to see it there, away from where the other pieces were kept, and she couldn't remember when on earth they had used it. Eventually, she arrived at the conclusion that it was from before she had joined the company. Only, it appeared to be new, rather than over three years old; very new and very real.
The set seemed to run all the way along the corridor, and the detail truly was extraordinary. She tugged at the leaves and a few fell loose, tumbling with a surreal grace to the ground, as though there was a breeze to carry them there. And the ground was spectacular in itself; someone had gone to a lot of trouble scattering dirt and twigs thick enough to feel soft under the soles of her shoes. And the smell! Fresh pine and moist soil, with the faintest hint of flora. For there were flowers, set aside the finely crafted bark of trees. The farther she walked, the more deeply she wanted to meet the artist who had created the set, and ask them for what purpose it had been designed. Perhaps it was for Swan Lake, and Kevin was simply so sure that he could glean the money he needed for the production that he had already gone ahead and commissioned a designer. It did seem entirely plausible to her, that he would seek out this level of realism for that dream of his.
She wandered further, suddenly curious about just how long this set piece was, and already constructed! Surely, that could have waited? Was Kevin really so brazen that he would not only have the pieces composed individually, but to have them assembled? It seemed absurd. They would need to deconstruct everything to relocate them to the stage, anyway.
Clicking her tongue, Maude realised how cold it had become since she had ventured down the corridor. You gladly pay for extravagant sets, yet you refuse to pay for decent heating! Her internal scorn disappeared very quickly, however, when it dawned upon her.
She was neither down a corridor, nor even backstage. She was, well and truly, standing in a thicket.
Confused, she turned on her heel and began to retreat from whence she came, only to be met with more trees and shrubbery. She walked and walked until she was certain the distance had amounted to that she had crossed down the corridor, and a panic began to rise in her throat. Had there been a door? Had she simply walked out into a forest at the back of the building?
Nonsense, she scolded herself. There aren't any forests in the centre of London, you stupid girl. This is probably someone's idea of a practical joke. But Kevin would not have risked such an intense joke on a night as important as that one.
With a second flurry of panic, she ran through the trees, stray branches cutting at her arms whilst the dirt covered what was exposed of her toes. She only stopped when she arrived at an opening, and it became even more clear that she was no longer in London. And unless I'm capable of travelling an immense number of miles in a matter of minutes, I can't say I'm in the north, either. Ruby red shoes and the thought of there being no place like home had not been on her agenda, either. No, definitely not the north, then. But still definitely not the south.
Increasingly aware of how wet her feet were becoming, Maude directed a look of distaste toward the ground, wiggling her toes in the confines of her shoes and watching as they only became more dirty. She had only worn those shoes because Colette had gifted them to her for her birthday, and now she was feeling rather guilty about ruining them. They were terribly uncomfortable things, too; strappy little shoes with heels were not her personal choice in footwear, but notwithstanding she was a woman who spent most of her time in ballet shoes, so she was in no mind to complain about discomfort.
A voice sounded in the near-distance—a low, guttural voice that she had previously deserved only for poorly-acted horror films. And, when she looked up to seek its source, she saw that the man who had spoken had a face to belong in a horror film, too.
That was when she fled, with the man—or rather, not a man at all—in hot pursuit. She ditched the shoes, also, hobbling for several moments to take them off and cast them aside, because if there was one thing she had learned from horror films, it was that the idiot who runs in heels always gets killed.
Every huff of breath came at a great price of pain, the longer she ran; and Maude had the endurance of a ballerina. Yet the air was unfriendly here, and the ground even more so, and her legs had clearly registered that she had the day off. It was torturous and tumultuous, but under no circumstances was she going to stop running. Rule number two of every horror film, she affirmed in her mind.
It was only when a startled bellow of pain erupted behind her that she dared turn around to look at her pursuer. He was sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around his temple, from which an arrow was embedded. Had someone intended to save her? She was unsure as to whether or not she even wanted to find out, and continued running.
She arrived at a cliff-face, quite suddenly, and swayed upon the edge. Taking a stumble, she would have undoubtedly fallen, had an arm not snaked its way around her waist, and pulled her back onto the grass. But this did not quench her fear, and so she darted back to her feet and started off once more, only to lose her balance over the gnarled root of a tree. The arm did not halt her fall this time, and she dropped to the ground, her head striking against a large rock at the tree's base as a dark curtain veiled her eyes.
Author's note: Hello! This is my first fan-fiction on this site, and I'm not sure what people will make of it, but I would appreciate some feedback! I know that my writing isn't top-notch, and the whole stumbling into Middle-earth has been done so many times, so I apologise for the tedium, but I feel that everyone's story is different, and so they really shouldn't be discredited for sharing a similar premise.
One more thing: from here on out, English will be bolded, and Westron will be your typical speech. Elvish will be italicised, but it will actually be Elvish (Elvish will be used sparsely, you see, and I don't fancy writing every conversation in true Westron because I find that language to be far more linguistically complex than Elvish).
