The Muse Errant

Disclaimer: Show all due deference to the genius of Tolkien, and to the New Line/WETA teams for the movies. I own nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except a whole lot of movies and books and a sleep disorder that seems to be quelled by lots of sewing. I must give all props to L8Bleumr for my inspiration. (I know the Muse angle has been done to death by other authors, but I really don't care. This is for me.)

Notes: Gratuitous use of SAT words and complex vocabulary. If this confuses you, don't read. Also a generous dash of Sindarin and Quenya. Because I can. Enjoy.

Part the First

Attention Deficit Disorder is one of the most over-diagnosed learning disorders in the academic world. I was diagnosed at twelve and...well, I actually do have it. I have difficulty concentrating unless kept consistently busy and my mind wanders faster and farther than a young horse let out of the paddock. If there is one thing I have discovered about how to deal with my brain, it is that I must multitask. My hands are forever growing bored, I can never just sit and watch television or read a book. I need background music when I read. I often sew while watching my favorite movies. Much the same is true of my writing, which, until very recently, never required any brainpower other than my own.

Aside from the ADD, I frequently suffer from insomnia, which basically boils down to a complete inability to shut my brain up. Thoughts, arguments, stories, suppositions, all flying at the speed of light in a million directions, regardless of what that silly clock happens to say. The aforementioned sewing and movie-watching consumed most of my sleepless nights, which could come as frequently as three to four days out of any given week. This has given rise to quite the collection of textile and leatherwork pieces, a good deal of which have been inspired by the medieval fantasy movies that are my regular evening fare.

My most recent project, a patchwork leather surcoat, was taking shape under my hands one evening as The Two Towers flickered across the TV screen. Not paying any particular attention, except for the occasional upward glance to enjoy sweeping panoramic views of New Zealand, I threaded another long strand of waxed linen through the eye of my darning needle. Random snatches of dialogue reached my ears through a gathering comfortable haze.

"What business does an Elf, a Man, and Dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!"

"Give me your name, Horsemaster, and I shall give you mine."

"I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

"You would die before your stroke fell! Mind your finger."

The needle ran right under my thimble, drawing a ruby bead of blood. Swallowing a curse, I nibbled the small hurt away and stared at the screen, perplexed. The familiar scene continued as I'd seen it a dozen times before. I shook my head, put the ad-lib down to the fact that I hadn't slept more than two hours in as many days, and went back to stitching the seam that had been fighting me all night.

"It's much easier if you turn it inside out first."

All right, I hadn't imagined it this time. All traces of hard-won fatigue gone, I groped for the remote control and hit Pause. The room fell quiet, the image of Legolas and his gifted horse freezing in place on the screen. The silence pressed in on my ears. My heart pounded. I stood and scanned the room.

My apartment isn't terribly big. A front room with an offshoot kitchen, a small bathroom, a decent-sized bedroom, and a couple of closets. The locked door was clearly visible from my position on the sofa and it being the weekend, I hadn't left the place all day. Glowing blue numbers on the microwave shelved on a steel baker's rack against the far wall of the kitchen read out 2:39am. Various movie posters stared down from the walls. The bookcase, stuffed to its' wooden gills with books and movies, stood quietly in the corner, perpendicular to the small cabinet that served as a TV stand. The large squashy couch and matching loveseat crouched opposite, adorned with mismatched throw pillows and blankets. All perfectly normal and familiar, save for the long-haired pointy-eared blond chap leaning over the back of the loveseat, elbows resting on a much-loved brown fleece. His piercing eyes were fixed on the flickering screen.

"I loved that horse. Very agreeable fellow, even with the Dwarf on his back."

My gaze flicked between the on-screen image and the apparent duplicate in my living room. The library in my head cross-referenced itself, looking for a correlation between insomnia and hallucinations. I closed my eyes and rubbed until dull yellow spots appeared, promising myself that it was time to go to bed.

"Oh it's going to take a good deal more than that to get rid of me, wilwarin." I opened my eyes in time to see him vault the back of the loveseat and stretch out comfortably.

"Shouldn't you be...?" Annnnd my usually articulate brain had deserted me completely.

"Oh no, that's long finished. That story ended ages ago." He laced long slender fingers behind his blond head and crossed his ankles, smirking at at me in a manner most cheeky.

All right...so there was an Elf in my living room. As the poet once said: what the hell next? Well, no time like the present.

"Just to clarify...that story... (here I pointed to the screen) is history."

A nod. "Aye."

"And you've somehow stepped out of Middle Earth into this one."

"Mae." Another nod, though the word was strange to me.

"...I'll take that as a yes. So what exactly are you doing in my apartment?"

"I understand you're in need of a muse. I've been sent to inspire you."

"To inspire me." The sheer amount of disbelief rolling through my words completely destroyed the poor unsuspecting question mark that might otherwise have followed them, leaving only a humble period. "You're supposed to INSPIRE me."

The Elf's smirk was getting cheekier by the minute, but only served to compound my irritation.

"It is the middle of the night and a fictional character has just randomly appeared in my apartment, claiming to be my own personal Muse. The only things I am inspired to do are to seek professional help because clearly I'm hallucinating, or to teach you the meaning of defenestration. And if you're very lucky, I'll actually open the window beforehand."

"Fictional!" The Elf sat up, looking surprisingly indignant over one simple word, considering I'd just threatened to unceremoniously toss him out of a window. "FICTIONAL! Oh now that is going too far!"

"Well, you are!" Sleep deprivation has a way of shortening my temper and depleting my otherwise abundant vocabulary. "You were created by an Englishman in the early part of the 20th century for a brilliant series of books, which have since been turned into an award-winning series of movies. You were portrayed by an actor who went on to play a blacksmith-turned-pirate. You are an illusion brought on by lack of sleep and-ACK!"

This rather undignified splutter was produced by my rather understandable shock at finding the Elf less than a foot in front of me within the space of half a blink. The cheeky smirk had vanished, to be replaced by a grim scowl. Bright blue eyes bored into my own dark brown ones. Instinctively, I raised a hand to ward him off. My palm smacked straight into a suede-covered chest, as real and solid as the wall he'd just backed me into.

"Do I seem," he growled, "like an illusion now?"

I felt my eyes widen. My jaw hung a little slack. My already annoyed vocabulary gave up completely, packed its' bags, and headed for Vegas, leaving me without any retort whatsoever, let alone something appropriately snappy.

"Good." Abruptly, he moved away, the cheeky grin returning. "Now that that's been settled, let's get started."

(Your reviews are appreciated. Part the Second coming soon.)