A/N: Hiya guys, this is my first ever fanfiction, so veteran advice is most definitely appreciated. =)
Also, one of the main OCs in this is a French-American girl, and I would like to make it clear that I AM NOT FRENCH. I've been learning it at school for the last five years, but I'm not fluent in any sense of the word, so apologies in advance for mistakes. Not to mention, a lot of the French phrases will be swearing (since Luka generally only reverts to French when she's emotional), which we haven't exactly covered in class. ;) So if anyone who actually DOES speak French could point any mistakes out to me, I would be very grateful.
On a similar note, both OCs in this fanfiction come from New Orleans, Louisiana, a city which my only experience of comes from X-men, google images, and Wikipedia. So, it will probably not resemble the actual place at all. Sorry about that.
Warnings: mild violence, frequent swearing, and dubious French XD
Summary: Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…
"…Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, you wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."
Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(
-PROLOGUE-
The girl in the mirror tilts her head from side to side, absently admiring the way the pale morning light reflects off her cheekbones. She doesn't care for vanity, but abstractly, the fading of light into shadow makes a curious image.
Hmmm… that's an idea. I could draw that, I think.
Long feathery blonde hair, clear hazel eyes and a serene smile – (a flash of enchanting gold, an illusion) - that makes Angela look closer to seventeen or eighteen than the twenty-one years she's lived – a peaceful picture, so different from the gaunt cheeks and swollen red eyes that looked back at her just a few weeks earlier.
Since the funeral, she's felt different… lighter, in a pale sort of way, like a gentle breeze on a Sunday morning. She's made her peace with her mother's passing, and now she just wants to find some… stability.
She stands, intending to find her sketch pad. As she crosses the room, her eyes pass over the mirror again, briefly.
(A ring, the Ring, come closer come closer)
Angela blinks for a moment, then shakes her head. It's just her imagination.
Chapter 1: Look Alive
-Luka-
Luka barges in the small apartment with a cacophony of sound, shamelessly dropping the spare key she'd pocketed the day before on the kitchen bench and throwing herself over the back of the couch to flop next to her friend.
"Wotcha doin', chérie?"
"Sketching," comes the quiet reply, Angela barely glancing up from the drawing that is just beginning to take shape on her page.
Luka peers over her shoulder at the page. "Dat you?"
"Yes," she says dreamily. "I wanted to draw the light in the mirror."
Luka, having been witness to several similar statements since Mrs Webber's death, makes no comment, but her easy grin becomes a little forced.
"Well," she says after a moment, "how 'bout yo' put de sketching away an' we go see some real ligh', mon amie? Dere's a new park down by Le Loup dat I wanna check out. Better den wastin' away in 'ere."
"I'm not wasting away," Angela protests, but the words lack their old fierceness. The girl Luka knows would've done one of two things: swatted her over the head with her sketch pad, or lunged for the door with a cheeky last one there does the dishes!
Luka stands anyway, turning away and stretching to hide the way she grits her teeth in frustration.
She wants to punch something. Wants to scream, to demand that the powers that be give her friend back or she'll-
Instead, she snatches the sketch pad from Angela's grip and holds it out of reach with a practised movement.
"Prove it," she challenges with a smirk. "Las' one dere takes de bins out!"
She dodges her friend's reaching arms and sprints for the door.
…
Luka had planned to win, but at the last second she slows her steps a fraction and lets Angela reach the park first.
(Angela's lost enough already, she thinks.)
One look at her friend's expression of radiant triumph tells her she's made the right choice. Flushed, with her long blonde hair stuck to her neck with sweat, Angela looks more alive than Luka has seen her in weeks- months, even. She feels a flood of relief, so jagged and powerful it leaves her gasping for breath, though it's easy enough to disguise as exhilaration from the race.
Angela laughs as she sticks her nose up in mock superiority. "That proof enough for you, Baudouin?"
Luka flaps a negligent hand at her. "Ouais, ouais. Rub it in, why don't ya?" She grumbles a bit under her breath to complete the act, but Angela's attention is already elsewhere.
She's off, flitting around the playground like a butterfly in human form, briefly caressing metal supports and railings as she passes like she always does. Angela has been fascinated by reflections of all kinds for as long as Luka has known her.
Only in recent times has this fascination begun to border on obsession.
But at least she's outside instead of cooped up in her apartment with that damned sketch book, Luka allows. She takes the opportunity to discretely tuck it into her jacket's hidden inner pocket; the phrase out of sight, out of mind seems appropriate.
…
When Angela's short burst of liveliness runs out, she joins Luka at the top of the climbing web. The darker haired girl is hanging by her flexed feet from the edge of the platform, swinging gently back and forth with the breeze. As Angela perches cautiously on the edge, she catches one of the wires and manoeuvres herself back up with an effortless grace that betrays the strength in her lanky form.
"Feel better now, Ange?"
Angela makes a quiet affirmative noise in the back of her throat and rests her head on Luka's shoulder.
"Bon."
…
Angela is almost child-like in her fatigue, Luka thinks fondly as she manhandles the other girl back to her apartment. One of her arms is wrapped Angela's waist, and the other keeps a gentle yet firm hold on her forearm, which is draped carelessly over Luka's shoulder.
Though the smaller girl is just about asleep on her feet, the people they pass on the street pay them no attention; it's a familiar sight. The stares they do get are admiring ones. Though in looks they're about as different as night and day – fair skin and fly-away blond hair to copper tan and dark brown waves with three rebellious braids down one side – neither of them are lacking in the looks department, as the posse of young men across the street make clear.
Luka smirks and blows them a mocking kiss behind Angela's back.
Others wolf-whistle for another reason entirely. But their leers and knowing looks are misplaced. She and Angela are closer than most, it's true. What the onlookers don't understand is that there are some things that break people, and there are some people that break – but Luka will never break, not while she has Angela.
Their co-dependence has nothing to do with love, at least not of the romantic kind. It's about support, about having each other's back and being there on the days when the world seems too cold and heartless to bear alone.
It's them fighting for their sanity; Luka-and-Angela back to back against the world.
-Angela-
The light glinting off the storefronts is almost… hypnotising.
She leans against the wall, waiting for Luka to finish paying for the groceries.
She's knows Luka's worried for her.
There's a flash of gold- a brilliant shining light.
(Subconsciously, some part of her wonders if her friend might be right.)
The gold is so… pretty…
Her feet move without permission, stepping out onto the road.
She just wants to see it… a little… closer…
"ANGELA, WATCH OUT!"
Car tires screech, and a hand closes around the back of Angela's collar, yanking her back on to the side walk – just in time. The car blurs past an inch away, wing mirrors just clipping her arm as she jolts back to reality with the knowledge that she'd been this close to dying.
Dying, right here and now, on the cold concrete of a New Orleans street.
"Saint putain dieu!" Luka snarls, chest heaving against Angela's back. "Da hell were yo' thinkin'?!"
"I-I," she stutters, unable to control the way her hands tremble and her eyes tear up. "I'm sorry, I-"
"Yo' almost died!"
"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-"
"-wasn't thinking?" Luka finishes angrily. "Was too busy watchin' the fuckin' reflection?! Damnit, Ange, yo' can't keep doin' dis! You-"
"I know!" Angela interrupts with a frustrated cry. She spins to face Luka, heedless of the crowd that is gathering on the sidelines. "I know, alright! I can't help it!"
Both girls fall silent, glaring at each other.
Finally, Luka looks away, hissing through her teeth.
For a moment, Angela thinks Luka's going to leave, going to storm off in a huff – then the next second she's got a face full of dark hair, and Luka's strong arms are nearly strangling her in desperate fear.
"Don' yo' ever scare me like tha' again, yo' crazy fool," she mumbles, face buried in Angela's neck.
"Sorry," Angela repeats dully, but she's not thinking of her recent close shave. This time she's apologising in advance.
-Luka-
The trip back to Angela's apartment is silent, each girl lost in her own thoughts. Luka's mind is buzzing, conjuring up wild conspiracy theories and countless highly implausible explanations for Angela's dangerous preoccupation with all things reflective, shiny, or gold.
Up until now, she's been willing to ignore it, to push back the little voice of caution in the back of her mind that tries to tell her that something is very, very wrong with her friend. But Angela had almost died today; she can't justify turning a blind eye any longer.
Something has to be done about this. The question is, what?
Luka feels like she floundering, way out of her depth. She wants to help Angela, but – for god's sake, she's a cage fighter, not a fucking shrink. What the hell can she do?
She pushes the sense of helplessness from her mind as Angela unlocks the front door and disappears inside without a word. Luka stares after her retreating back for a second, and sighs.
"Ye're trouble, yo' know dat?" Shaking her head ruefully, she follows her friend inside.
The lounge room/kitchen area is both empty and stiflingly hot when Luka steps into it. She cracks open the windows to let in some fresh air, then raids the fridge for two unopened bottles of water.
"Ange, yo' wan' some water, chérie?" she calls down the short hallway, but receives no answer.
"Ange?" she tries again.
Frowning, she drops the grocery bag on the bench and pokes her head into her friend's room. "If dis's abou' before, I'm n- Ange?" She pauses.
Angela is standing with her back to the door, facing the full length mirror on the opposite wall. She's frozen still, arms hanging limply at her sides. There's no sign of distress, but something about the picture makes Luka uneasy.
"Angela?" She repeats cautiously, but her friend doesn't react. Not even a twitch.
The curl of dread in her stomach intensifies.
"Ange, chérie, wha's wrong?" She puts the bottles down and takes a step forward, only to freeze when Angela lurches forward suddenly and collapses to her knees.
"Angela!" She darts forward and kneels next to her friend, noting the way her skin in pale and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her breath seems to be coming in rapid gasps.
Luka checks her forehead-
"Merde!" She pulls her hand away sharply, palm tingling where it had come into contact with Angela's burning skin. "Wha' de hell?!"
Fevers aren't exactly uncommon in a city as humid as New Orleans, where the very air breeds bacteria, but Luka's never seen one as bad as this. She's just debating phoning the hospital when Angela suddenly lurches back to her feet and staggers away.
No, Luka realises. Not away, towards the mirror.
It dawns on her that leaving Angela in the same room as a large reflective surface may not be a good idea, given the almost-consequences of her most recent episode. With this in mind, she hastens forward and hooks her arms under her friend's shoulders and starts to haul her back to the door.
To her shock, Angela reacts violently, thrashing and twisting and straining to escape Luka's hold. Only her experience as a semi-professional fighter allows her to keep her grip, catching Angela's wrists in a tight grasp and forcing her arms up behind her back.
She feels a flash of guilt when Angela lets out a pained yelp, but it's swiftly driven from her mind when Angela tears herself free of Luka's arms – nearly dislocating her shoulders in the process – and tackles her to the ground.
"Wha- putain!"
Luka lands heavily on her back, dodges the first swipe, and blocks the second. On the third strike, she manages to regain her hold on Angela's wrists, and uses it to flip them over so she can sit up and lock Angela's legs to the floor with her knees and ankles. Bodily restrained, her friend can only wreathe, struggling silently.
"Angela!" she hisses, muscles burning from the effort. "De fuck are yo' doin'? Snap outta it!"
In reply, Angela twists around and bites her.
"Aïe!" Luka yelps in surprise, accidentally loosening her grip on her friend's wrists. In an instant, Angela gains the upper hand and – fuuuuuck! – she'd known she'd one day regret teaching her how to punch a man unconscious.
She lies on the floor for a few seconds, dazed, with a high pitched ringing in her ears. Through blurry vision, Luka sees Angela stagger to her feet and pitch unstably towards- towards that goddamn mirror.
She should… get up. Do something…
Painfully, she crawls upright, clutching at the dresser for support when the world shivers and distorts. She brings a hand to her head and it comes away bloody.
For a few shaky moments, she just stares at her palm blankly, unable to understand how Angela – sweet, innocent, gentle Angela – could possibly have hurt her.
But that Angela is nowhere to be found right now. Luka's possible concussion has nothing to do with the fact that she hardly recognises the girl who even now is standing stock still before the floor length mirror across the room. She has the same face, the same hair, the same delicate, pale form… but it's not Angela.
It's not.
She clings to this thought with every inch of her tattered soul… as she launches straight at the monster in her best friend's body and tackles her to the floor.
Or at least, that's where she intends for them to fall- where they should have fallen, had the world retained its usual logic in that moment.
Instead, they fall through the mirror.
A/N: Cherie is the French feminine form of cher, meaning 'dear' or a similar term of endearment. Luka uses it as something like 'honey.' As for merde and putain… well, they're swear words. You can look them up yourself if you want to know what they are.
Also, the nickname 'Ange' is a play on Angela's name. Ange is French for 'angel,' which is both a term of endearment and another shortened version of 'Angela.'