Notes to be dispensed below. Onward!
~Chapter One~
~Thespians 'R' Us~
Most people, in their tales, enter Middle Earth with a sort of bang resounding in their heads. Deirdre was no different. But really, in the state that it was she entered the place she had so often inhabited in her dreams, if you had pointed this out to her, she probably would have spat some choice and colourful swear words in your direction and swatted ineffectually at you, before falling over.
oOo
The cast of the Lord of the Rings were a motley crew of friends and divas, joined and bound in a way that those who haven't been bitten by the theatre bug can never understand. The theatre binds you, it joins you, and upon entering through it's doors, you are a part of something much larger than you are. You are part of a family, be you husband or sister or orphan in your mundane life, you are part of that great unit known as "cast and crew". You belong.
There were many.
There was Fabian. Poet, Oxford Graduate, shy, quiet, studious and part-time librettist. Employed by the Lord of the Rings to make changes to song lyrics. His sandy hair was just long enough to be fastened away into a short pony-tail, and behind his tortoise-shell glasses, his pale blue eyes were lively.
There was Michael. Techno-nerd, to the extremes, and musical genius, having composed most of the tracks from the show by ear, adding his own little flairs to the notes. He was also one of the technicians of the show, and your resident well of information on the latest gizmos and gadgets, far before they should legally be known about.
There was Ritz. No one knew his real name, it was something he kept firmly to himself, but everyone had their suspicions. Director of the show, he tended to wear black constantly, contrasting sharply with his shock of white hair, and often confused characters and lines in the most hilariously agitated way, and had been flitting through Broadway theatres for some forty years.
There was Polaris, aptly enough, having just finished a run as La Carlotta from the Phantom of the Opera. Flighty, beautiful and fierce, she understudied Galadriel, and dreamed of playing the role, while performing as Glorfindel. She could speak four languages, was the daughter of an ambassador, and hit nightmare E in her sleep.
There was Kevin. Tall, dark and the rugged, quintessential Aragorn, with a Colgate smile. He was a perfectionist, with a strong voice, whilst being well-grounded and stoic, unsure of his role in the great world of acting.
There was Gregory. Exuberant, flamboyant and dashing; a bright spark in everyone's lives, with his jollity and mystery. There was more to Gregory than met the eye, and more below the English gentleman's surface than one thought. Hugely dramatic, the boy had been born to the stage, and had been waiting for his perfect role since he had graduated the London Academy years previously. Playing Legolas was a dream come true for he with the noble beauty.
And there was Deirdre. Painfully young, an Irish girl fresh from her home to New York, only nineteen and cynical as one thrice her age. Playing Arwen was the biggest challenge she was ever faced with, having stuck to camera work for her career, and never trusting her voice that much. Helpful, considerate and awkward, her disastrous clumsiness was a source of constant entertainment to everyone around her.
They all had adventures, bound as one family. Bound together, linked and bonded. They were one. They were the Lord of the Rings.
oO*Oo
Deirdre, nineteen, pale, and an actress, began her Middle Earthen life by falling down a flight of stairs in a theatre. A less romantic method could hardly have been thought of, especially, when upon waking in this mystical land of her dreams, the awesome costume that she had fallen in was almost completely covered in a layer of dirt and mud and, in her own words 'other random shite'.
It was opening night. Deirdre had lived through a fair few since her first foray into theatre at just ten years of age, but never before had she been one of the leading ladies of a musical, and certainly never anything so sacrosanct to her as her own precious Lord of the Rings. Silly as it was, she had the idea that the whole show was resting on her shoulders, and if she screwed up, they would flop, and that was it. It wasn't the best thought to have fifteen minutes before you were due to open the show. In Elvish.
Deirdre sat the dressing room she shared with the actress who was playing her understudy, and tried not to hyperventilate. She was clutching the liquid-like links of her silver Evenstar pendant in one pale hand, as if in prayer, and in the other, the telegram that her romantic-minded co-star and great friend had sent to her, along with a pink carnation.
To my darlingest Deirdre,
First of all, calm. Calm, calm. Okay, calm? Good.
Just a quick message to say 'break a leg!' and to assure you that you will be fabulous. And if you aren't, I'll smuggle you out of the theatre on my bike, and we'll elope in the Caribbean. I'll call you Wendy, and you can call me Jackson. It'll be fun.
Estelio han, lovely! You'll be fine.
Lots 'o luff,
LEGOLAS!! . . . or Greg. xxx
Despite her death-pallor and the feeling that, should she open her mouth one fraction of a millimetre, she would projectile vomit all over her thoroughly expensive costume, (so expensive, in fact, that Ritz all but had her under armed guard while she was in it) she giggled. Gregory Peters couldn't be prouder of having gained the part of Legolas in the Broadway production of the Lord of the Rings, but still in public was the very sober opposite of his true self, and tended to be coy about his successes.
Suddenly, Deirdre felt better. Greg had that effect on her. At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and before she could answer, he burst in.
'Hey!' she cried indignantly, and put on her best English accent.
'It is customary to knock before entering a lady's dressing room, you cad!' she sniffed, as Greg laughed, before running over to her, and picking her up off her stool, and twirling her around the room, singing, 'Opening Night! Opening Night!'
Deirdre squawked indignantly, but still wanted to giggle.
Gregory at last set her down, and gazed down at her with his pale blue eyes fever-bright. Deirdre took a moment to remark to herself just how handsome Gregory really was, and think for a moment how endearing his utter passion for the theatre was. But she shook the thought from her head; with a nature as camp as Greg's, it was difficult to know which way he swung, and Deirdre didn't think of him in that way anyway.
You learned not to, in theatre.
'All set?' he asked her. She glared at him.
'No! In fact, I'm having one of those moments when anything, and I do mean anything would be preferable to facing the masses singing in Elvish! I mean, Jesus! How do I know it's 'lasto I lam-ETH, or lasto I lam-ATH?? THAT KIND OF THING CAN MAKE ALL THE DIFFERENCE!!'
'Dee … you don't need to worry. Unless you're expecting some grammatically correct Elvish Fascists to show up, and flame us for our protégées mispronunciation.'
He frowned to himself, as he idly adjusted his Legolas-sash.
'Do they have Fascism in Elvish society? Hmm. Now, there's an idea. Oh, probably. But you'd know more about it than me … I never actually read the book …'
Gregory glanced up, and his eyebrow quirked confusedly.
'Deirdre? Are you shaking?'
'YES, I'M BLOODY SHAKING!! I am about to sing the opening number in a show as the leading lady for it's opening night on BROADWAY, and I'm only nineteen! Foolish! Young! Uninformed! Asthmatic! And I think I'm going to be sick,' she finished, flopping into a chair, and burying her head in her hands.
'Aw, Dee! Don't be like that! You'll be great. There is absolutely no need for you to feel nervous,' he told her, picking up a copy of the script, and leafing through the run over his lines.
'But I'm terrified, Greg! I'm singing the first song – in Elvish! I'm going to faint!'
'You won't faint. I stand right beside you, and if you start to faint, I'll threaten to propose to you. Again.'
She peered up to see his lazy grin spreading over his face.
'Knew that little joke would cheer you up. Like the telegram?' he asked, standing up from where he had knelt. She smiled at him, shakily.
'Of course I did. Always one for the theatrics, huh?'
He shrugged.
'That's why we're here, babe,' he told her, and made for the door.
'I'm okay to leave? You're not going to commit suicide in the next fifteen minutes? Well, ten, really,' he said, glancing at his watch, before double-taking and preparing to remove it.
'Why? What's happening in ten minutes?'
Gregory frowned.
'Curtain up. I was sent to tell you.'
'AGH!! GREG!! I still need to warm up!' she cried, leaping off the chair, and stumbling, before grabbing her shoe bag, and racing for the door. She paused before Greg.
'Be there at the mike?'
'Sure thing, kid.'
'Thanks Greg! I owe you one,' she called over her shoulder, racing for the stairwell, the light billows of her pale green gown floating beguilingly around her. Gregory smiled at the pretty spectacle she made, and sloped in the opposite direction to cause havoc for another few minutes, before retrieving his good-luck martini. Grown up, schmown up.
Deirdre thought she was going to cry. The vocal coach was at least three minutes away, and the curtain would rise promptly in ten. As she passed through one of the quicker routes, she could hear the frenzied beat of hobbit drums playing the pre-show entertainment, and ran faster. One flight now …
The top step was dark. It was dark in the corridors. True, she had run the steep steps countless times, but it only took one moment of a lapse in concentration to misjudge the distance. And it only took one moment to realise her mistake, and claw for balance. It took a few more after that to fall through the empty space, but luckily for her, it took very few of those short moments once she had begun tumbling head over heels to pass out in a blaze of head injuries and concussion.
Her last view of the world she had known all her short life was a strip of florescent emergency lighting, a concrete wall, and the dark depths of her unconscious mind.
The first view of the new world would be grass. Damp, dewy grass.
She had always preferred cinderblocks.
xXx
A/N: I'm just asking for trouble here, aren't I? Well, yet another fic to be half-finished and abandoned, no doubt! But I have a bit of an idea. I probably won't update for a while, I have exams, you see, but I hope you like it. Don't think it's ever been done on this scale before.
Next up: Gregory admires costumes and wonders who spiked his martini, in true Legolas style. (He's a sweetie, isn't he?)
Won't update without reviews. It'll take you five seconds. Three, if you misspell things. ;) Love you all! -Wraithlike