Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR. Happy?
I love Lord of the Rings more than anything. But this is not me. This is an idea. A dark idea that has been worming around in my brain.
And anyway, don't all the really wonderful LOTR scenes (especially the Extended Edition ones) cause a euphoria of some sort?
************
A cloudy, dreary day in a polluted city is where this tale begins.
A cold, strong wind was blowing its along the sparsely populated street.
Scraps of papers were flying, hats blowing right off people's heads. Shrieking sparrows crashed back to the ground as they attempted takeoff, their bodies too tiny to withstand the force of the almost-gale.
Stores lined the sidewalks of this dirty street. The goods of every modern salesman were displayed in the windows, for all to see and marvel at.
Clothes, books, toys, furniture--twas a merchant's street for certain. Anything could be purchased.
Anything at all.
The bell above the door rang hellishly as a thin figure stumbled out of Nethaniel's Drugstore. It bore the last name of some long forgotten druggist, whose family might have possessed the store for generations. But the drugstore was no longer owned by any sort of kith or kin to the aforementioned faceless ghost.
The owner (who went by the ridiculously fake name of Mr. Smith) had simply purchased the pharmacy make money. He was not skilled in the ways of medicine, nor had he ever truly graduated any institute of higher learning.
He stocked his shelves with what he knew to be popular amongst his buyers. He cared not what he sold, or to whom. As long as they had money (or something else to trade) he was willing to sell anyone anything.
Anything at all.
The thin form stumbled onto the sidewalk and leaned against the drugstore window, breathing heavily.
The figure was a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. She was terribly scrawny, although from lack of food or lack of love no one could tell. Maybe a little of both.
The girl's clothes were tattered and worn, her thin jacket providing little shelter from the cold wind. Her eyes were dull, set back far in a grimy face. Oddly enough though, they seemed to burn with a powerful, almost sinister force.
One dazed stare from her misty hazel eyes would probably be enough knock you off your feet and leave you lying in the gutter.
"Ay, girlie. Any spare change for the homeless?"
The girl turned her head at the sound. A middle-aged man lay slumped at the entrance of a nearby alleyway. His clothes were even grimier than hers, and his bearded face was dotted with pockmarks.
Her face almost expressionless, the girl staggered over to the beggar. Digging a hand into her coat pocket she pulled out two dimes and a penny.
Leaning forward, the girl dropped the coins in the beggar's open palm.
But as she did this, the sleeve of her coat slid up her arm, revealing several strange bruises that dotted her left forearm. They weren't singular needle marks. Rather, they were more akin to the marks that tuberculosis tests leave on one's arm. The bruises were all dark purple in color, and each contained a large red circle in the center.
A well-dressed woman was walking up the street. Behind her trotted a little boy, probably her son. As the woman approached, she noticed the marks on the girl's arm.
The woman went pale, and she involuntarily took a step backwards.
Grabbing the boy's hand, she abruptly jerked him into the street and raced across the road, wobbling in her high heels. She glanced back several times at the girl, her plump face tense with fear.
The girl did not keep her eyes on the woman, but looked at the ground, watery tears forming in her eyes, but not falling. Not yet anyway.
The beggar observed the exchange silently, examining the bruises and eventually shrugging his shoulders. He glanced down at the change in his palm, and almost immediately snapped his head up. A look of petulant anger was on his face as he glared at the girl.
"Twenny-one cents! Can't ye give me anythin' more, girlie? Or are all 'obbitfreaks cheap like ye?"
The girl stared for a moment, her hard eyes focused directly on his face. The beggar squirmed and lowered his eyes.
"Do you really think I can afford to give you anything?" She asked softly. "I'm a fool to give you even that. *I needed* that money."
"Aw, I'm sorry!" The beggar mumbled, waving a hand in front of his lowered face. "Thank y graciously, godlovesthee mayangelsblesstheeinheaven, and all that nonsense. Now be off, fer the love of whatever heathen god ye pray to!"
"I pray to no one." The girl said coldly, turning around and walking more or less steadily down the road.
~~~
Many blocks farther down, the streets dissolved into filthy slums. Sewers leaked foul-smelling smoke, and yellow scum clotted in pools of water along the road. Apartments built from cement and bits of broken brick squatted next to each other, like ugly fat toads crouching in long lines.
Poor folk and criminals lived here. In the cheapest buildings the city had to offer. They cost next to nothing, but the price was hard. Death and disease lurked in these streets.
But farther on, the filth of the slums receded. In the heart of the destitute community lay streets that were not slimy, but simply gray and dusty. There was no activity on the streets either. No murders, no prostitution, no nothing.
All occurred behind closed doors. Soundproof doors, so no one could hear anything.
The girl raced up the stairs of a building whose front door was covered with faded spray paint messages. They were unintelligible, but had probably been so even when newly applied.
Echoes bounced off the walls as the girl staggered up the stairs. She leaned heavily on the rails, her knuckles white. Sweat formed on her forehead.
When she reached the second-to-last floor, she breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. Torn boots slap-slapping at the cold floor, she walked along the hallways. Pulling out a key, from her pocket, she unlocked a door and stepped inside.
The apartment was small, but surprisingly nice. There was a bathroom in the corner opposite the door, the only other 'room' in the girl's home. There was a bed pushed up against a wall, its once-white sheets rumpled and sweat-stained.
A small microwave sat on the floor, plugged into the room's only outlet. Three feet away from it was a large trunk, which presumable held all the girl's possessions.
Her legs finally giving way, the girl collapsed on the bed. She was gasping for breath, her hands clawing at her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she was desperately trying to remember something.
Untangling one hand from her stringy brown hair, the girl fumbled in a secret pocket of her jacket and whipped out a strange-looking device.
It was about six inches long. And at first glance, one would perceive it as the handle of a screwdriver. But the implement was made of hollow plastic. And right where the metal part of the screwdriver should be, there was a strange silver looking cylinder. It had a metallic sheen, and it looked as if anyone who touched it would get a nasty electric shock.
The girl, still gasping, glanced at the handle of the device. There were bold capital letters stamped on it.
SHIRE POV MB. E.E. FOTR NO. 1-9*
"This...had better...beworthit." The girl said to herself between gasps. "Extra money...danmyou Smith! But i'mdead otherwise...ohhelpme..."
Shutting her eyes and taking a deep choking gasp, the girl gripped the plastic handle and pushed the metallic cylinder into her arm as hard as she could.
The powerful surge tore through her body, making her go stiff and drop the device onto the sheets.
As the girl collapsed on the bed, her eyes rolled back in her head until all that could be seen was the whites.
Starting from the fresh bruise that had formed merely seconds ago, a gray hue washed over the girl's rigid form.
To the world, she looked dead and rotting.
But it was really quite the opposite.
~~~
At first there was only a gray, hazy mist.
Many addicts considered this to be the Wraith World, but studies said that the mist was simply the brain's transition to viewing a 'hallucination' through another creature's eyes.
Ah, screw the studies. It wasn't a hallucination, everyone knew that. And what was important was what came next.
Almost as soon as the mist appeared, it evaporated to reveal a cozy, dimly lit tavern. The view of the tavern was from high up, atop a table.
*Hey ho! To the bottle I go! To fill my heart and drown my woe!*
The scene swayed back and forth drunkenly. The cause of this was apparently a raised mug of beer that could always be seen hovering in the corner of the image. A hobbit dressed in brown skipped away from the bar and danced around the table, singing along and ducking his head.
*Rain may fall, and wind may blow! But they're still beee...many miles to go!*
The shifting image finally centered itself on a hobbit whose face was level with the view of the scene. Reddish curls bounced against his forehead as the hobbit sang merrily, accompanied my mostly everyone else in the room.
*Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, And the streams that flow from hill to plain! Better than rain or rippling brook...*
The close face jerked away as the hobbit threw back his head and sang on his own.
*Is a mug of beer inside this Took!*
The tavern roared with laughter so strong and powerful that it seemed to shake the very walls of the building.
Never would there be such innocent joy, such wonderful merriment in reality.
The scene replayed itself several times, each one clearer and more detailed than the last.
After all, it was barely seventeen seconds long. To play it only once and then be done with it could surely kill a person for the want of more.
~~~
Slowly, trying to hold on, the girl's eyes slowly opened. Her gray skin was fast turning its natural color, and she felt mobility restored to her limbs.
Her body was soaked in sweat, and tears of joy ran unheeded down her face.
A shaky smile forming on her face, the girl stared up at the paint peeling on the ceiling and began to giggle. All to soon her laughter turned into shrieking guffaws that are normally uttered by the insane.
Laughing and crying at the same time, the girl raised a weak hand to wipe her tears away.
Was it worth it? Oh, most assuredly so!
She wouldn't eat today or tomorrow. There wasn't enough money. But it was worth it.
Oh, it was worth it.
*********
Reviews boost my self esteem.
I love Lord of the Rings more than anything. But this is not me. This is an idea. A dark idea that has been worming around in my brain.
And anyway, don't all the really wonderful LOTR scenes (especially the Extended Edition ones) cause a euphoria of some sort?
************
A cloudy, dreary day in a polluted city is where this tale begins.
A cold, strong wind was blowing its along the sparsely populated street.
Scraps of papers were flying, hats blowing right off people's heads. Shrieking sparrows crashed back to the ground as they attempted takeoff, their bodies too tiny to withstand the force of the almost-gale.
Stores lined the sidewalks of this dirty street. The goods of every modern salesman were displayed in the windows, for all to see and marvel at.
Clothes, books, toys, furniture--twas a merchant's street for certain. Anything could be purchased.
Anything at all.
The bell above the door rang hellishly as a thin figure stumbled out of Nethaniel's Drugstore. It bore the last name of some long forgotten druggist, whose family might have possessed the store for generations. But the drugstore was no longer owned by any sort of kith or kin to the aforementioned faceless ghost.
The owner (who went by the ridiculously fake name of Mr. Smith) had simply purchased the pharmacy make money. He was not skilled in the ways of medicine, nor had he ever truly graduated any institute of higher learning.
He stocked his shelves with what he knew to be popular amongst his buyers. He cared not what he sold, or to whom. As long as they had money (or something else to trade) he was willing to sell anyone anything.
Anything at all.
The thin form stumbled onto the sidewalk and leaned against the drugstore window, breathing heavily.
The figure was a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. She was terribly scrawny, although from lack of food or lack of love no one could tell. Maybe a little of both.
The girl's clothes were tattered and worn, her thin jacket providing little shelter from the cold wind. Her eyes were dull, set back far in a grimy face. Oddly enough though, they seemed to burn with a powerful, almost sinister force.
One dazed stare from her misty hazel eyes would probably be enough knock you off your feet and leave you lying in the gutter.
"Ay, girlie. Any spare change for the homeless?"
The girl turned her head at the sound. A middle-aged man lay slumped at the entrance of a nearby alleyway. His clothes were even grimier than hers, and his bearded face was dotted with pockmarks.
Her face almost expressionless, the girl staggered over to the beggar. Digging a hand into her coat pocket she pulled out two dimes and a penny.
Leaning forward, the girl dropped the coins in the beggar's open palm.
But as she did this, the sleeve of her coat slid up her arm, revealing several strange bruises that dotted her left forearm. They weren't singular needle marks. Rather, they were more akin to the marks that tuberculosis tests leave on one's arm. The bruises were all dark purple in color, and each contained a large red circle in the center.
A well-dressed woman was walking up the street. Behind her trotted a little boy, probably her son. As the woman approached, she noticed the marks on the girl's arm.
The woman went pale, and she involuntarily took a step backwards.
Grabbing the boy's hand, she abruptly jerked him into the street and raced across the road, wobbling in her high heels. She glanced back several times at the girl, her plump face tense with fear.
The girl did not keep her eyes on the woman, but looked at the ground, watery tears forming in her eyes, but not falling. Not yet anyway.
The beggar observed the exchange silently, examining the bruises and eventually shrugging his shoulders. He glanced down at the change in his palm, and almost immediately snapped his head up. A look of petulant anger was on his face as he glared at the girl.
"Twenny-one cents! Can't ye give me anythin' more, girlie? Or are all 'obbitfreaks cheap like ye?"
The girl stared for a moment, her hard eyes focused directly on his face. The beggar squirmed and lowered his eyes.
"Do you really think I can afford to give you anything?" She asked softly. "I'm a fool to give you even that. *I needed* that money."
"Aw, I'm sorry!" The beggar mumbled, waving a hand in front of his lowered face. "Thank y graciously, godlovesthee mayangelsblesstheeinheaven, and all that nonsense. Now be off, fer the love of whatever heathen god ye pray to!"
"I pray to no one." The girl said coldly, turning around and walking more or less steadily down the road.
~~~
Many blocks farther down, the streets dissolved into filthy slums. Sewers leaked foul-smelling smoke, and yellow scum clotted in pools of water along the road. Apartments built from cement and bits of broken brick squatted next to each other, like ugly fat toads crouching in long lines.
Poor folk and criminals lived here. In the cheapest buildings the city had to offer. They cost next to nothing, but the price was hard. Death and disease lurked in these streets.
But farther on, the filth of the slums receded. In the heart of the destitute community lay streets that were not slimy, but simply gray and dusty. There was no activity on the streets either. No murders, no prostitution, no nothing.
All occurred behind closed doors. Soundproof doors, so no one could hear anything.
The girl raced up the stairs of a building whose front door was covered with faded spray paint messages. They were unintelligible, but had probably been so even when newly applied.
Echoes bounced off the walls as the girl staggered up the stairs. She leaned heavily on the rails, her knuckles white. Sweat formed on her forehead.
When she reached the second-to-last floor, she breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. Torn boots slap-slapping at the cold floor, she walked along the hallways. Pulling out a key, from her pocket, she unlocked a door and stepped inside.
The apartment was small, but surprisingly nice. There was a bathroom in the corner opposite the door, the only other 'room' in the girl's home. There was a bed pushed up against a wall, its once-white sheets rumpled and sweat-stained.
A small microwave sat on the floor, plugged into the room's only outlet. Three feet away from it was a large trunk, which presumable held all the girl's possessions.
Her legs finally giving way, the girl collapsed on the bed. She was gasping for breath, her hands clawing at her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she was desperately trying to remember something.
Untangling one hand from her stringy brown hair, the girl fumbled in a secret pocket of her jacket and whipped out a strange-looking device.
It was about six inches long. And at first glance, one would perceive it as the handle of a screwdriver. But the implement was made of hollow plastic. And right where the metal part of the screwdriver should be, there was a strange silver looking cylinder. It had a metallic sheen, and it looked as if anyone who touched it would get a nasty electric shock.
The girl, still gasping, glanced at the handle of the device. There were bold capital letters stamped on it.
SHIRE POV MB. E.E. FOTR NO. 1-9*
"This...had better...beworthit." The girl said to herself between gasps. "Extra money...danmyou Smith! But i'mdead otherwise...ohhelpme..."
Shutting her eyes and taking a deep choking gasp, the girl gripped the plastic handle and pushed the metallic cylinder into her arm as hard as she could.
The powerful surge tore through her body, making her go stiff and drop the device onto the sheets.
As the girl collapsed on the bed, her eyes rolled back in her head until all that could be seen was the whites.
Starting from the fresh bruise that had formed merely seconds ago, a gray hue washed over the girl's rigid form.
To the world, she looked dead and rotting.
But it was really quite the opposite.
~~~
At first there was only a gray, hazy mist.
Many addicts considered this to be the Wraith World, but studies said that the mist was simply the brain's transition to viewing a 'hallucination' through another creature's eyes.
Ah, screw the studies. It wasn't a hallucination, everyone knew that. And what was important was what came next.
Almost as soon as the mist appeared, it evaporated to reveal a cozy, dimly lit tavern. The view of the tavern was from high up, atop a table.
*Hey ho! To the bottle I go! To fill my heart and drown my woe!*
The scene swayed back and forth drunkenly. The cause of this was apparently a raised mug of beer that could always be seen hovering in the corner of the image. A hobbit dressed in brown skipped away from the bar and danced around the table, singing along and ducking his head.
*Rain may fall, and wind may blow! But they're still beee...many miles to go!*
The shifting image finally centered itself on a hobbit whose face was level with the view of the scene. Reddish curls bounced against his forehead as the hobbit sang merrily, accompanied my mostly everyone else in the room.
*Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, And the streams that flow from hill to plain! Better than rain or rippling brook...*
The close face jerked away as the hobbit threw back his head and sang on his own.
*Is a mug of beer inside this Took!*
The tavern roared with laughter so strong and powerful that it seemed to shake the very walls of the building.
Never would there be such innocent joy, such wonderful merriment in reality.
The scene replayed itself several times, each one clearer and more detailed than the last.
After all, it was barely seventeen seconds long. To play it only once and then be done with it could surely kill a person for the want of more.
~~~
Slowly, trying to hold on, the girl's eyes slowly opened. Her gray skin was fast turning its natural color, and she felt mobility restored to her limbs.
Her body was soaked in sweat, and tears of joy ran unheeded down her face.
A shaky smile forming on her face, the girl stared up at the paint peeling on the ceiling and began to giggle. All to soon her laughter turned into shrieking guffaws that are normally uttered by the insane.
Laughing and crying at the same time, the girl raised a weak hand to wipe her tears away.
Was it worth it? Oh, most assuredly so!
She wouldn't eat today or tomorrow. There wasn't enough money. But it was worth it.
Oh, it was worth it.
*********
Reviews boost my self esteem.