Welcome to Somwhere

This started as a "rant" after reading a fic involving a really, really, horrible OC, a significant lack of Boromir romance fics, an evening spent at Library of Moria, and a Newsies reincarnation story that died after awhile. Yep, I'm a confused, confused person. This is what working for four months on a tedious novel does to one…I needed to write something lighter after that. ^^ Don't own LOTR. Wish I did. Slash warning.

I leave it to you to guess which character has been reincarnated into who, for the meanwhile.

***


"The soul never really dies, and the body is never really alive." ~Isaac Singer

Dimitri Belov awakened.

The glass of vodka sat unobtrusively upon its shelf, backed by the eminence of the formidable piano. The clock upon the mantle ticked away, counting down the minutes, hours, days, weeks of time spent in hell. And still he sat, half-dressed amongst the ruffled sheets of the big bead, throbbing head supported by a net of long fingers. Early afternoon sunlight lanced ferociously through the open window, and still, he did not feel the fathomless warmth of it. The blood seemed to have frozen in his veins long ago.

Dark hair spilled over his cheeks, sweeping past his face and obscuring profound dark eyes. He was the picture of despair. It was written into every line of his body, into every aspect of the too-empty bedroom, from the chill despite the warmth, to the empty spot at his side where Dania's small frame had been. He reached out, running a hand over the hollow place. She had left him three days ago, severed a fragile cord in the space of time that it took a heart to beat.

Or break.

Dimitri rolled over, wincing at the sudden shift of weight. The low mattress creaked beneath him, protesting as he stepped off it. The luxury apartment seemed so stark. The piano glared back at him, papers scattered about its pedals and base, about the legs of the seat. They were filled with all kinds of notes: half notes, quarters, sixteenths, crescendos, dimminuendos—symbols, from the grand power of double forte to the unobtrusive subtlety of pianissimo. Tribute to his skills as a composer.

A goddamned starving composer, he thought irritably, tramping his way to the counter at the opposite end of the room. His lanky frame was outlined neatly against the tall glass windows, blinds wide open.

Don't give a damn. Let the world know I shop at cheap, shoddy stores for my no-name brand of boxers. I'm losing money fast, anyway.

He fell forwards, leaning against the countertop for support, burying his face in his hands.

God. What would Dad say if he could see me now? This is classic: boy leaves home, boy searches for fame, boy finds fame. Boy becomes man. Man finds love. Man loses love and becomes terrified little kid again. Perfect.

Not that he could blame Dania for leaving him. It had been an unhealthy relationship; he had been draining the life and vitality from her with his dependancy.

She was always crazy, he mused, flipping the sink on with a deft twist of his hand. Always coming up with weird things.

"Do you believe in karma?" she'd inquired, tilting her head back. The long, chestnut locks fell charmingly from her visage. He had laughed long and loud, shaking his head 'no.' She'd looked so disappointed.

And defensive.

Turning to face him, Dania strived to prove her point. "There are things beyond this reality, you know," she'd said. "It's not all one big box, like you think it is. There's more."

"Like?" he'd prodded, teasing.

"Well…" she hesitated, one hand curled around her steaming cup of coffee. "…well, have you ever walked by a palce you know you've never been to before, and somehow…I dunno…somehow felt like it's the most familiar spot on earth?"

Dimitri blinked, coming back to himself. The tap-water ran frigid over his fingers. The clock ticked steadily. He sighed and turned the sink off, realizing the pointlessness of his actions. He was not thirsty; his fingers just wanted for something to do.

If you want something to do, you'll pay Fred a visit today. He's probably wondering why you left so early, so soon last night. There's still the possibility of a record to discuss…

He turned, reflection snared in the glass of the high windows.

And stopped dead for a moment.

The image that stared back at him was not his own.

A gaunt, careworn face gazed back, bordered by lank, unwashed hair. The tunic was ragged, frayed, the eyes so intense that he barely recognized them. A weapon's blade flashed in the dying light, a mighty sword, a potent tool of destruction, its blade re-forged—

Dimitri blinked, and the image vanished. He stared hard for a minute longer, then turned away with an agonizing slowness.

Tired. Have to stop by the café on the way to the studio. And buy coffee. I'm tired of paying for something I could make at home.

And the image in the window's reflection—his 'other self,' became quickly forgotten, swept into life's violent current and soon lost.

***

The three of them sat unobtrusively, clustered on the corner of a street. One of them stood a head taller than the other two, clean-shaven, slightly stocky, and fidgeting nervously with the 'tail' of his jacket. The next was a woman, outwardly human, cynical expression, hawk-like features, small stature and all. The third was looked suspiciously out of place, long, golden hair swept out of his eyes, mismatched clothing appearing as though it had been thrown on at the last minute. He glanced amusedly at the girl standing beside him, letting loose a soft chuckle.

"Well? We've been waiting for a long enough time. Where is the man you speak of?"

The girl—Briar—gnawed her lower lip, barbed green eyes darting out into the steady rush of people.

"I don't know," she admitted. "He was supposed to be here a…well, a long time ago."

The man in the jacket turned to glare at her. "Remind me again, Briar," he hissed, "why am I following a deranged girl and a pointy-eared frea…ah…being…around a crowded city?"

Briar's response was tired, automatic. "Because you have to. You're one of the Few: one of the are humans who is aware of his past lives, his past realities. And don't whine. It could be worse; you could be trapped in the body I'm trapped in. Or, you could be like Greenleaf here—" she jerked in a thumb in the blonde's direction— "resurrected to serve his purpose, and then go back to the grave."

The man sighed resignedly. "Remind me again. About the other part."

Briar shook her head, short-cropped yellow hair flashing in the light. The gaudy bangles and earrings she wore clanged softly against one another. The girl gestured airily.

"In another place, another existence, you played son to a ruling Steward. You were born into a time when the threat of the One Ring was more than just a rumor. And you were a part of the company chosen to destroy it. It was destroyed all right," she added sardonically, "but that was in another reality, another dimension. The Ring, like you and your comrades, has been—reincarnated, you could say. And so has the one who created it. It is your task to—"

"That was a rhetorical question, you know. No need to get all 'smoke and mirrors' on me."

Briar shot him a dirty look. "I know. I'm just trying to hammer home how important this man we're waiting for is: he's key in what's about to happen. And we're going to wait out here till Doomsday, if we have to."

"I've got a feeling that's going to be the case," the man replied gloomily, folding his arms over his chest. "Fine, then. I'll wait. But this is costing me an interview with…somebody. Understand?"

Briar rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I understand."