I haven't wrote anything in a long while but couldn't quite scratch the itch after recently re-watching the movies. So, without further ado, here's another girl-goes-to-middle-earth fic.
Chapter 1
Have you ever felt the way the cold December sun warms your darkest clothing? Saw the blinding light pierce bare-boned trees? Smelt the scent of freshly oiled leather against dry, frosty air? Tasted withered grass on the breeze, and heard the sound of absolute stillness?
Doesn't sound like something you can always experience, especially in a busy city.
I'd just spent the entire morning working on an embroidery project for my textiles class and now had a fifteen minute break before my next session. I laid down on the chaffed lunch table outside the old fine arts college in the interim, meaning for the winter cool air to revive me and rest my eyes, not lull me into a light sleep.
It's the distant chirping of a bird that finally rouses me enough to realize the tabletop is no longer under my back.
The sound of cars at the takeout next door are gone; the taste of greasy fries just a residue in my mouth. Sweet grassy decay mixed with the smell of oiled leather and unhindered light from a true-blue sky stings my eyes. Cold dew on the grass soaks into the faux leather leggings I wear.
I close my eyes, biting my lip to keep from shifting against the stiff coldness growing in my back and butt. It's a good kind of discomfort, and if this was a dream I didn't want to wake from it.
The grass sways noisily, giving away the approach of a group of people. It sounds so near I wonder if it is genuine or just a part of my dream.
After a moment of quiet brooding a single set of footsteps drew closer, accompanied by the confident clack-clack of a staff on frost packed soil.
"It's a bit cold to be napping in the glade, wouldn't you say?" his old voice is pleasantly warm, though a touch wearied, and annoyed.
"Oh, it is. I can't feel my butt." I reply, scrunching my eyebrows up against the intrusion.
He hmm-s a quiet note, his shadow falling over my eyes as he leans over me.
I squint at him from the thinnest sliver of opening eyes, meeting a wrinkled visage of grey and blue. "You're blocking the light,"
"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear." He immediately straightens, looking up and around his broad brimmed hat at the sky, smiling genially. "I didn't mean to hinder your view."
"Hmm."
The fidgeting resumes from back a ways and the older gentleman discretely glances over his shoulder before clearing his throat. "Might I inquire as to what you are doing here?"
"I'm watching the clouds. They're quite pretty today," never mind I'd been asleep moments before.
He doesn't call me out on that, just hmm-s again. "Yes, I suppose they are. But what are you doing here?"
Grudgingly, I sit up without looking away from the sky, shrugging my shoulders. My roughed up, over-the-shoulder, canvas bag is with me. The devil is really in the details today, I think. My usual embroidery supplies are in it, plus a few snacks.
I reach into the bag and take out a gala apple, ignoring the agitated shifting in my peripheral. I take a bite before I remember I was asked a question.
"Not sure," I say, pushing the bite of apple into one cheek. "Where is here, if you don't mind me asking?"
"This is Hollin, a short journey south from Rivendell."
"Oh. Well that's odd."
"Yes, indeed."
I gnaw away on the apple, flicking the core away after I finish. He says no more and I stand, wiping my hands on the tunic dress sticking out from under my leather jacket. It's the only absorbent material I'm wearing today. I've fallen pretty hard for the leather trend.
I'm not the only one, I see. The group of very tall and very short men all seem to have leather incorporated into their outfits—from shoes to gloves, to jerkins and belts.
"Alrighty then." I walk back the way they've just come and they split into two groups to let me pass through the middle. Their expressions are a mixture of bewildered distrust and open curiosity.
"Where are you going?" the smallest asks, his lips puckered just so.
"Where ever I am likely to find a telephone."
"A tele-phone?"
His closest friend elbows him, hard. They're similar; curly haired with baby faces, but the voices of grown men. I switch tactics quickly, pulling matching brown leather gloves from my coat pocket.
"I can see you lot have places to be, things to do . . . I appreciate your waking me up and all, but toodles—I'm not where I'm supposed to be."
"And where are you supposed to be?"
I give up pretending he isn't a wizard and take his pointy hat at face value. In true Johnny Depp fashion, I turn one way, and another, and then deliberately point towards the dark horizon.
"That way," I start walking again, wondering how far I'll get before someone stops me again.
The red bearded, axe wielding, helmet wearing, Dwarf—stops me.
"I wouldn't be heading that way if I were you, lassie."
"Why not? Looks cozy enough to me. Reckon there's a fire to warm my frozen ass on?"
His jaw drops and I enjoy the round of baffled looks I receive. The wizard has an invisible smirk on his lips, pretending to be unfazed.
The tallest of the nine gestures to one of the smaller guys. He looks in dire need of a drink. "Sam, start a fire."
"Are we having second breakfast?"
No one replies, though his buddy makes a fist ready to dole out a whack at the next stupid question.
Mr. Tall-and-Blond follows after the dark haired man, whispering rapid fire in a way that distinctly tells me three years of high school French can't hope to help me. They argue quietly while picking up wind fallen branches from nearby trees.
I give up on that exchange and plonk down by Sam. He builds a fire from some hastily thrown together stones and dry grass, hazel flecked blue eyes darting between my face and the fire as he mutters to himself, "Look fairer and feel fouler,"
The grey wizard sits next to me. "Do you have any idea how you came to be here . . . ? Dear me, it seems I've forgotten to inquire your name?"
It's a rather smooth question and I offer my hand to him to shake. He unhurriedly takes it, watching me still.
"Cornelia Blake," I twist my tongue in my mouth, wondering how best to explain myself. "I might have accidently misplaced myself."
The Dwarf rests on his axe, standing near the growing fire. "Misplaced yourself? You chose a right good place to do it."
"One would wonder why," the man shakes his head, sandy brown hair swaying. He wears richer clothing than all but the Elf, red cloth peeking out from under his cloak and leather jerkin. He's been the most reluctant to speak.
"Oh, I was quite bored." Expectant eyes look up from around the fire and I roll out my best answer. "I dreamt myself away from home and woke up here." I wasn't entirely convinced I wasn't still dreaming.
"Oh dear, that sounds terrible." I guess he must be the youngest, as he's the least weary.
"Have you tried dreaming yourself back?" for once, he's not scolding his counterpart.
"But I'm not bored now,"
He crosses his arms. "Do you always sleep when you're bored?"
"Usually,"
The shorter one tilts his head. "Does this happen often?"
"Not really, but I guess there was that one time with the wardrobe."
"Wardrobe?"
"Hmm." I don't really know where I thought I was going with that.
Thankfully, the knight snorts. "This is ridiculous. You can't dream yourself away somewhere!"
By now, the wizard has lit a pipe, silently watching the proceedings. He makes a thoughtful sound.
The pair of blonde shorties resume their questioning.
"Where are you from?" one asks.
"Is it far from here?"
Honesty, I think, is the best policy.
"I think it may be near, but also very far. I wonder if you've heard of Earth?"
He nods enthusiastically. "Middle Earth, yes—"
"Well, that explains it," I titter. "I came from the Lower Earth."
The wizard raises a grey brow and the leader-ly man crosses his arm from across the fire. His blonde haired shadow makes an interesting expression.
"Harad?" the naysayer scoffs. "You do not look like the Haradrim."
"Not Harad," I snipe, rolling my eyes for good measure. He looks affronted, leaning away to whisper something to the Dwarf.
The tall and dark haired ranger meets my eyes, speaking clearly but not loudly. "Surely not the Dark Lands?"
"Of course not, I said Lower Earth."
The blonde one shakes his head gently, long hair swaying. Three of the four small folk have begun eating. "No one here knows of this Lower Earth you speak of."
"I doubt she knows of it herself," the Dwarf sniffs, taking a link of sausage from their cook.
I brush it off, warming my feet near the fire. I'm more concerned with getting an ember on my suede boots than making them believe me.
The smell of food burning on an iron pan is too much for me to contain and I break out an aluminum tin of oatmeal cookies. I doubt they'd offer me food, innocent girl or not.
Mr. Second Breakfast swallows as a whiff hits his nose and I stuff a whole cookie in my mouth, offering the tin to him. "Want one? My nan made them this morning." Pointy ears perks up at the word 'nan' but doesn't comment.
"Don't mind if I do,"
The ranger looks like he wants to stop him from eating the cookie but he's too late to stop the little glutton.
"These are delicious!"
The Dwarf is sizing up the cookies now, looking down his nose and beard with hungry eyes. I offer out the tin without a word.
He smells it carefully before taking a bite, nodding in appreciation. "Fresh baked, no doubt about that." He turns to the disapproving ranger and Elf. "I'd like to know how the wee las ended up out here, days away from a stove, with fresh biscuits."
That seems to give them all something to consider. He's not wrong that it's physically impossible to end up in the middle of nowhere out of the blue and without intention.
I offer the cookies out to all but only the wizard takes one, nibbling silently for a moment. I put the tin away before anyone can change their mind, absently playing with the strap of my bag.
"What are you going to do now?" the short one is fast becoming my favourite person of the group.
"I'll wait for a sign—I'm here by accident but not without reason."
The grey coloured wizard chuckles at this. "Forgive me, my dear, but is this not already sign enough?"
"I think I'm poorly matched to aid nine warriors,"
The short one laughs. "We are not all warriors."
"But you will be,"
He stops laughing at that and the knightly guy flashes me a withering glare.
The wizard laughs amiably, tapping spent leaves from his pipe before offering his hand to shake again. "I am Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey."
Pippin quickly introduces himself, having held back long enough in his eyes. He adds a short spiel on the other three Hobbits, much to Sam's dismay.
Aragorn sighs a little, frowns a little, and introduces himself—prompting Legolas and Gimli to introduce themselves in that order. I'm glad they've introduced themselves; I was running out of names to call them.
I look to Boromir and he glares back, lips tight. "That's fine. I'll just call you Mr. Bugle."
He sputters, turning slightly red around the collar. Gimli roars with laughter and I wonder if the bugle has even been invented yet. It does sound sort of like an insult out of context.
Regardless, he refuses to name himself and Pippin whispers me his name and affiliation as Aragorn and Sam douse the fire with loose dirt, scrubbing the pan out with dry grass.
After the camp is broken they shepherd me into the center of the walking formation—where Gandalf seems quite content to wait for me to ask questions.
All the while, I'm still wondering if food poisoning causes hallucinations of this caliber.
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