Oh, my. I have written about someone falling into Middle-Earth. *shudders at the thought*. But it is for a very, very good reason. So I'll grin and bear it.
This fic is being written for a very close friend, so it probably won't get updated as much as I would like. I was begged to write it as a graduation/birthday present, so I'm kinda taking my time with it. Hope it comes out okay.
This story is dedicated to Daemon. Remember this: No matter what happens, your music will live on through me. You were willing to take the girl who got frustrated to easily and was very disrespectful and turned her into something great, and I will always thank you for that. Your music will live on through me. And thank you for not leaving me behind.
Warnings: There will be slash. It also deals with suicide and other nasty thoughts.
The title of this story comes from 'Scream of the Butterfly' by Acid Bath
Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to Tolkien. And I would like to remind Daemon that Legolas was mine first, and I am being gracious here. It also ties in a bit with Mercedes lackey. The whole Bard and Creation Magick idea belongs to her.
Dreams of Liquid Blue
Chapter 1: Shards of Me
Shards of me too sharp to put back together, too small to matter.
-----'Breathe No More' Evanescence
----------------------------------------------------
His life was over. All his dreams were shattered. All his goals that had once lain so tantalizingly close had been stripped away in one moment.
There was nothing left to live for.
Seventeen-year-old Daemon Kincaid stared down at his bandaged hands, once the instruments of perfection, now ruined for life. He had once been able to create the most beautiful melodies with those hands, his gift from God. But no more. The music had been silenced.
Daemon had picked up the guitar at an early age, which thrilled his mother, a former musician herself. By the time he was ten, he had been declared a prodigy, his fingers moving over the frets almost faster than the eye could follow. He could listen to anything and be playing it to perfection merely hours later. He would rent videos of Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Paige and other guitar gods, soaking them up, watching how they played and learning. By the time he was thirteen, he had a band and was playing gigs at fairs and other community gatherings.
His parents had coaxed him away from his beloved Gibson long enough to learn the piano. He picked it up easily enough, but nowhere near as quick as the guitar. He became talented on that instrument as well, and took delight in writing pieces of music for piano and guitar duets. But he was happiest when he was sitting with that old, worn out acoustic and picking any tune that came to mind.
Other instruments followed: violin, trumpet, drums, even flute. His parents wanted him to go to Juliard, but he refused to leave his band behind. And, no matter how good he was at other instruments, he always went back to that Gibson.
The same Gibson that was now shattered in a million pieces.
It had been a simple accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. He had been cutting off a piece of wood to help build his mother's curio cabinet when the handle of the saw---which was older than he was and held in place by pound of duct tape---broke. The saw, still going. fell on his hand, severing four of his fingers.
He had been rushed to the hospital, nearly hysterical with pain. The doctor had done what he could, but had informed them that there was no way to reattach Daemon's lost fingers. He had been lucky the saw didn't do more damage, and they had managed to get him to the hospital before he lost too much blood. But Daemon didn't care about that.
His days as a musician were over.
Things were never the same after that. The boy had retreated into a deep depression that not even eighteen-year-old Morrigan Blackwood, his best friend, could pull him out of.
At first, it was just silence and blank stares. He wouldn't respond to those around him and, one by one, his friends and former bandmates left him. Only Morrigan stayed by his side.
Then had come the anger. It had happened all at once. He had been sitting in his room, starring at the various guitars that sat happily in their stands, seeming to mock him. Something in him had snapped. With a loud cry, he picked up the offending Gibson---the first guitar he'd ever bought and refused to part with---and smashed it over and over onto the floor. It soon lay in pieces and he stood in the middle of it, broken neck still dangling from his hand, cursing it. He had wanted to cry then. He could even feel the tears well up behind his eyes. But something in him refused to let them out.
This had frightened his parents. They immediately sent him to see a shrink. The first report they had gotten back was that Daemon was a very violent young man with need of serious medical help. But he would continue to treat him as best as he could.
The only time Daemon ever seemed tame was when he was with Morrigan. She would sit with him and spread out blank sheet music between them. He could write music. When he felt the time was write, he could pick up the pieces of his shattered dream and put it back together. He had taken the gift, but had yet to use it.
Now his thoughts had turned dark. His hand served a mockery to remind him of all that once was, of all that could have been. So much had been lost.
The first attempt was with a knife at his wrists. He had left two notes, one for his parents and one for Morrigan, before going to the small studio his parents had built for him and the band. There, surrounded by the things he had used to love, he tried to take his own life.
It would've worked, except Morrigan had decided to come by to drop off some new equipment she had gotten. He was in the hospital within a matter of minutes, placed under strict suicide watch and Morrigan's tearful eyes.
"Please don't leave me," she had whispered. "Don't leave me behind. Just hold on a little longer."
He hadn't been able to look her in the eye.
His parents, fearing what the reactions of his fellow students would have on Daemon's fragile psyche, had taken him out of public school and hired a tutor. He did his work, but only because it would keep his parents and teacher from nagging him.
Again, it seemed as though his red-haired friend was the only one who could get through to him. They would sit for hours in silence as they worked on their school work, but it was a companionable silence. She started going with him to therapy sessions, and his parents began to have new hope.
Until he tried again.
He had been walking through a busy part of town, head bowed. But he still hadn't been able to ignore the looks people were giving him, the whispers, the pointing fingers. So he had flung himself out into the rush of noon traffic.
The car managed to swerve a bit, so the impact wasn't too bad. It only clipped him, giving him a broken shoulder and bruised rib. He was again sent back to the hospital and placed under suicide watch.
His parents had watched in helpless anger. Their little boy was gone. They did everything they could for him, but he wouldn't come back.
By then, Morrigan was almost a permanent fixture. She would come in and read 'The Lord of the Rings' to him. His tutor had mentioned something about British Literature, and the girl had jumped at the chance to share her passion with her friend.
Daemon seemed to come alive when she did this. He could find so many parallels with his own story that he couldn't help but listen intently as her husky voice told of the exploits of Frodo and the Fellowship.
He couldn't seem to get enough. When she saw his thirst, Morrigan began bringing copies of the movies along with her as well. They would stay up late into the night, watching them. Morrigan often teased him that the only reason he wanted to watch them was because he could oogle Legolas, which caused a blush to rise to his cheeks. He had never made it a secret that he was attracted to guys instead of girls, and Morrigan had taken it completely in stride.
"Just be careful, though," she had warned him jokingly. "I might get jealous. After all, I did see him first."
He began to feel his life start to reform, to have meaning again. He decided then and there that he wanted to be a writer, to create these beautiful worlds. For he felt that, when watching the movies or reading the books, he escaped his own tortured life. He was someone again.
But his happiness was not to last.
Even the most devoted spouses can find things to drive them apart. No one was perfect, and no two people always got along. For his parents, their suicidal son had been that breaking point. His father wanted him to be put in an institution, or at least get some kind of help. His mother said that he was getting the best help he needed just then.
"You call a girl with half a brain 'the best help'?" his father would shout. "She just reminds him of everything! He'd only going to get worse if he stays around her."
"Morrigan is his best friend," his mother would reply, her voice soft and eyes sad. "She knows what he needs better than you or I. If she can't pull him through, then no one else can."
Mr. Kincaid would growl then go off to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Scotch, as he had been prone to do lately.
The fights only got worse. Daemon had witnessed the first the time his father had struck his mother and had retreated into his room. He didn't know what to do. It was all his fault.
Which was why he was now in his mother's Lexus, speeding down the highway going over ninety miles an hour. He knew that this was it. There wouldn't be anyone to take him to the hospital this time. Very few people would be out at four in the morning. Besides, he planned on their not being much left for them to find. The gas tank was full, and he wasn't wearing a seatbelt. He could only imagine what would happen to him when the car slammed into a concrete wall.
Tears blurred Daemon's vision, but he still would not let them fall. He never paid attention to where he was going, as long as it ended in a cliff or wall.
Which is why he never noticed the strange road that suddenly appeared before him. Or why it seemed as though everything was flying past him in a blur.
At least, not until the voice spoke.
"Daemon Kincaid?"
He yelped and jumped, turning to his passenger seat. His hands came off the steering wheel, but the car stayed going strait.
His first surprise came at the fact that, somehow, someone was in the car with him. His second came when he saw just exactly *who* his passenger was.
The person in question had long blond hair and eyes of sparkling blue. They were dressed in a green tunic, with a bow and quiver full of arrows slung over his shoulder. And his ears were definitely pointed.
Daemon was quite sure he had gone insane. "Legolas?" he whispered increadously.
The Elf tilted his head to one side. "You have heard of me?"
Daemon could only nod. "But---you're not real," he managed to whisper. He wondered if this was just some twisted fantasy his brain had invented now that he realized Daemon was about to die.
Legolas---if that's indeed who it was---gave him a smile. "Ah. So you have read our tale. I promise you that it is all true. There was an Elf who has lived since that time. He came to these shores years ago and became great friends with a teacher. He told him his story one night, and so the tale was told as fiction in this world."
He shook his head, hair brushing the stunned teen. "But that is not why I have come to you now." He leaned forward, so that his own blue eyes were locked with that of Daemon's. "You wish to die, Daemon Kincaid. Do you not?"
Still unable to speak, he nodded.
Legolas paused before continuing. "I have a choice for you, and it is yours alone." He nodded to the road that stretched out before them through the windshield. "You can continue on as you were, ending in death. Or you could come with me."
Daemon simply blinked at him. "With you? But...why? I'm no good to anyone anymore."
"That's not true," Legolas answered firmly. "We all have a purpose in life. And yours is to aide the peoples of Middle-Earth. That is, if prophecy is to be believed."
"How?" His voice miserable, he looked down at his hand.
Legolas's voice continued, soft and soothing. "You were a Bard in this world, a great musician. True, you can no longer play your songs, but that doesn't mean your magick has abated one bit."
This caused Daemon a moment's pause. "Magick? What do you mean?"
A smile ghosted across the Elf's lips. "Bards are some of the most powerful mages on Middle-Earth. They can create things---beautiful things---from their songs. Even when the songs can no longer be heard, the magick remains. Even the Istari can not do such things."
"And what you need me for? You're right. I can't play any more."
A steely look came into Legolas's eyes. " A new Evil has arisen. He is an imposing figure, living in the black tower of Dol Guldur. He calls himself Chaos, and he is killing everything in Middle-Earth. He wants the world to be in his vision, and is turning everything he touches into dark, barren wastelands. He wants Humans and Elves as slaves for his Death Guards, terrible creatures by their own right."
Daemon simply stared at him. He was completely entranced by the story. The passion with which the Elf spoke. ~Those blue eyes.~ "What can I do against such a force?"
Legolas looked him strait in the eyes. "Become his greatest fear. What better way to fight Death with Life? You can recreate what he has killed. You can bring dead things back to life. You are Middle-Earth's last hope, for there are no other Bards to equal your power."
Daemon fell silent, his brain working overtime. Here he was in a car that seemed to be moving on its own, listening to an Elf he thought hadn't existed telling him that he was the last hope for a dying world.
But what if he was just dreaming? What if he somehow woke up and found himself thrown back into his pain-filled life where he no longer had a purpose? Could he risk that?
"What is your choice, Daemon Kincaid?" came that soft voice, breaking into his thoughts. "Do you wish to end your life now, travel to the lands of your God? Or do you wish to have a reason to live again?"
~A reason to live again...~ Those words tugged on his heart. He knew somehow that this was true, that he wasn't going to be taken back to that awful place he called home. "Besides," Morrigan always told him, "what fun is life if you don't take risks?"
Daemon turned to the Elf and nodded. "I want to come with you."
Smiling, Legolas reached out and took Daemon's hand---the boy shivered at the contact---and both disappeared in a blinding light.
--------------------------------------
It wasn't an hour later that the police found the car, wrapped around a tree. No body could be found, but there was no way any one could have survived a crash like that.
Morrigan and Daemon's mother held each other as they wept, reaching out with love and comfort as well as arms. His father stood a little ways away, looking shocked.
Morrigan's heart ached with a fierce emptiness, but she couldn't help but offer a smile as she turned a tear-stained face to the sky. ~I hope you're in a better place, my friend. And I hope that you sing forever.~
----------------------------------
Please review. I would like to know if it's too idiotic or not before I give this to him. I hope to have another chapter up soon.
This fic is being written for a very close friend, so it probably won't get updated as much as I would like. I was begged to write it as a graduation/birthday present, so I'm kinda taking my time with it. Hope it comes out okay.
This story is dedicated to Daemon. Remember this: No matter what happens, your music will live on through me. You were willing to take the girl who got frustrated to easily and was very disrespectful and turned her into something great, and I will always thank you for that. Your music will live on through me. And thank you for not leaving me behind.
Warnings: There will be slash. It also deals with suicide and other nasty thoughts.
The title of this story comes from 'Scream of the Butterfly' by Acid Bath
Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to Tolkien. And I would like to remind Daemon that Legolas was mine first, and I am being gracious here. It also ties in a bit with Mercedes lackey. The whole Bard and Creation Magick idea belongs to her.
Dreams of Liquid Blue
Chapter 1: Shards of Me
Shards of me too sharp to put back together, too small to matter.
-----'Breathe No More' Evanescence
----------------------------------------------------
His life was over. All his dreams were shattered. All his goals that had once lain so tantalizingly close had been stripped away in one moment.
There was nothing left to live for.
Seventeen-year-old Daemon Kincaid stared down at his bandaged hands, once the instruments of perfection, now ruined for life. He had once been able to create the most beautiful melodies with those hands, his gift from God. But no more. The music had been silenced.
Daemon had picked up the guitar at an early age, which thrilled his mother, a former musician herself. By the time he was ten, he had been declared a prodigy, his fingers moving over the frets almost faster than the eye could follow. He could listen to anything and be playing it to perfection merely hours later. He would rent videos of Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Paige and other guitar gods, soaking them up, watching how they played and learning. By the time he was thirteen, he had a band and was playing gigs at fairs and other community gatherings.
His parents had coaxed him away from his beloved Gibson long enough to learn the piano. He picked it up easily enough, but nowhere near as quick as the guitar. He became talented on that instrument as well, and took delight in writing pieces of music for piano and guitar duets. But he was happiest when he was sitting with that old, worn out acoustic and picking any tune that came to mind.
Other instruments followed: violin, trumpet, drums, even flute. His parents wanted him to go to Juliard, but he refused to leave his band behind. And, no matter how good he was at other instruments, he always went back to that Gibson.
The same Gibson that was now shattered in a million pieces.
It had been a simple accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. He had been cutting off a piece of wood to help build his mother's curio cabinet when the handle of the saw---which was older than he was and held in place by pound of duct tape---broke. The saw, still going. fell on his hand, severing four of his fingers.
He had been rushed to the hospital, nearly hysterical with pain. The doctor had done what he could, but had informed them that there was no way to reattach Daemon's lost fingers. He had been lucky the saw didn't do more damage, and they had managed to get him to the hospital before he lost too much blood. But Daemon didn't care about that.
His days as a musician were over.
Things were never the same after that. The boy had retreated into a deep depression that not even eighteen-year-old Morrigan Blackwood, his best friend, could pull him out of.
At first, it was just silence and blank stares. He wouldn't respond to those around him and, one by one, his friends and former bandmates left him. Only Morrigan stayed by his side.
Then had come the anger. It had happened all at once. He had been sitting in his room, starring at the various guitars that sat happily in their stands, seeming to mock him. Something in him had snapped. With a loud cry, he picked up the offending Gibson---the first guitar he'd ever bought and refused to part with---and smashed it over and over onto the floor. It soon lay in pieces and he stood in the middle of it, broken neck still dangling from his hand, cursing it. He had wanted to cry then. He could even feel the tears well up behind his eyes. But something in him refused to let them out.
This had frightened his parents. They immediately sent him to see a shrink. The first report they had gotten back was that Daemon was a very violent young man with need of serious medical help. But he would continue to treat him as best as he could.
The only time Daemon ever seemed tame was when he was with Morrigan. She would sit with him and spread out blank sheet music between them. He could write music. When he felt the time was write, he could pick up the pieces of his shattered dream and put it back together. He had taken the gift, but had yet to use it.
Now his thoughts had turned dark. His hand served a mockery to remind him of all that once was, of all that could have been. So much had been lost.
The first attempt was with a knife at his wrists. He had left two notes, one for his parents and one for Morrigan, before going to the small studio his parents had built for him and the band. There, surrounded by the things he had used to love, he tried to take his own life.
It would've worked, except Morrigan had decided to come by to drop off some new equipment she had gotten. He was in the hospital within a matter of minutes, placed under strict suicide watch and Morrigan's tearful eyes.
"Please don't leave me," she had whispered. "Don't leave me behind. Just hold on a little longer."
He hadn't been able to look her in the eye.
His parents, fearing what the reactions of his fellow students would have on Daemon's fragile psyche, had taken him out of public school and hired a tutor. He did his work, but only because it would keep his parents and teacher from nagging him.
Again, it seemed as though his red-haired friend was the only one who could get through to him. They would sit for hours in silence as they worked on their school work, but it was a companionable silence. She started going with him to therapy sessions, and his parents began to have new hope.
Until he tried again.
He had been walking through a busy part of town, head bowed. But he still hadn't been able to ignore the looks people were giving him, the whispers, the pointing fingers. So he had flung himself out into the rush of noon traffic.
The car managed to swerve a bit, so the impact wasn't too bad. It only clipped him, giving him a broken shoulder and bruised rib. He was again sent back to the hospital and placed under suicide watch.
His parents had watched in helpless anger. Their little boy was gone. They did everything they could for him, but he wouldn't come back.
By then, Morrigan was almost a permanent fixture. She would come in and read 'The Lord of the Rings' to him. His tutor had mentioned something about British Literature, and the girl had jumped at the chance to share her passion with her friend.
Daemon seemed to come alive when she did this. He could find so many parallels with his own story that he couldn't help but listen intently as her husky voice told of the exploits of Frodo and the Fellowship.
He couldn't seem to get enough. When she saw his thirst, Morrigan began bringing copies of the movies along with her as well. They would stay up late into the night, watching them. Morrigan often teased him that the only reason he wanted to watch them was because he could oogle Legolas, which caused a blush to rise to his cheeks. He had never made it a secret that he was attracted to guys instead of girls, and Morrigan had taken it completely in stride.
"Just be careful, though," she had warned him jokingly. "I might get jealous. After all, I did see him first."
He began to feel his life start to reform, to have meaning again. He decided then and there that he wanted to be a writer, to create these beautiful worlds. For he felt that, when watching the movies or reading the books, he escaped his own tortured life. He was someone again.
But his happiness was not to last.
Even the most devoted spouses can find things to drive them apart. No one was perfect, and no two people always got along. For his parents, their suicidal son had been that breaking point. His father wanted him to be put in an institution, or at least get some kind of help. His mother said that he was getting the best help he needed just then.
"You call a girl with half a brain 'the best help'?" his father would shout. "She just reminds him of everything! He'd only going to get worse if he stays around her."
"Morrigan is his best friend," his mother would reply, her voice soft and eyes sad. "She knows what he needs better than you or I. If she can't pull him through, then no one else can."
Mr. Kincaid would growl then go off to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Scotch, as he had been prone to do lately.
The fights only got worse. Daemon had witnessed the first the time his father had struck his mother and had retreated into his room. He didn't know what to do. It was all his fault.
Which was why he was now in his mother's Lexus, speeding down the highway going over ninety miles an hour. He knew that this was it. There wouldn't be anyone to take him to the hospital this time. Very few people would be out at four in the morning. Besides, he planned on their not being much left for them to find. The gas tank was full, and he wasn't wearing a seatbelt. He could only imagine what would happen to him when the car slammed into a concrete wall.
Tears blurred Daemon's vision, but he still would not let them fall. He never paid attention to where he was going, as long as it ended in a cliff or wall.
Which is why he never noticed the strange road that suddenly appeared before him. Or why it seemed as though everything was flying past him in a blur.
At least, not until the voice spoke.
"Daemon Kincaid?"
He yelped and jumped, turning to his passenger seat. His hands came off the steering wheel, but the car stayed going strait.
His first surprise came at the fact that, somehow, someone was in the car with him. His second came when he saw just exactly *who* his passenger was.
The person in question had long blond hair and eyes of sparkling blue. They were dressed in a green tunic, with a bow and quiver full of arrows slung over his shoulder. And his ears were definitely pointed.
Daemon was quite sure he had gone insane. "Legolas?" he whispered increadously.
The Elf tilted his head to one side. "You have heard of me?"
Daemon could only nod. "But---you're not real," he managed to whisper. He wondered if this was just some twisted fantasy his brain had invented now that he realized Daemon was about to die.
Legolas---if that's indeed who it was---gave him a smile. "Ah. So you have read our tale. I promise you that it is all true. There was an Elf who has lived since that time. He came to these shores years ago and became great friends with a teacher. He told him his story one night, and so the tale was told as fiction in this world."
He shook his head, hair brushing the stunned teen. "But that is not why I have come to you now." He leaned forward, so that his own blue eyes were locked with that of Daemon's. "You wish to die, Daemon Kincaid. Do you not?"
Still unable to speak, he nodded.
Legolas paused before continuing. "I have a choice for you, and it is yours alone." He nodded to the road that stretched out before them through the windshield. "You can continue on as you were, ending in death. Or you could come with me."
Daemon simply blinked at him. "With you? But...why? I'm no good to anyone anymore."
"That's not true," Legolas answered firmly. "We all have a purpose in life. And yours is to aide the peoples of Middle-Earth. That is, if prophecy is to be believed."
"How?" His voice miserable, he looked down at his hand.
Legolas's voice continued, soft and soothing. "You were a Bard in this world, a great musician. True, you can no longer play your songs, but that doesn't mean your magick has abated one bit."
This caused Daemon a moment's pause. "Magick? What do you mean?"
A smile ghosted across the Elf's lips. "Bards are some of the most powerful mages on Middle-Earth. They can create things---beautiful things---from their songs. Even when the songs can no longer be heard, the magick remains. Even the Istari can not do such things."
"And what you need me for? You're right. I can't play any more."
A steely look came into Legolas's eyes. " A new Evil has arisen. He is an imposing figure, living in the black tower of Dol Guldur. He calls himself Chaos, and he is killing everything in Middle-Earth. He wants the world to be in his vision, and is turning everything he touches into dark, barren wastelands. He wants Humans and Elves as slaves for his Death Guards, terrible creatures by their own right."
Daemon simply stared at him. He was completely entranced by the story. The passion with which the Elf spoke. ~Those blue eyes.~ "What can I do against such a force?"
Legolas looked him strait in the eyes. "Become his greatest fear. What better way to fight Death with Life? You can recreate what he has killed. You can bring dead things back to life. You are Middle-Earth's last hope, for there are no other Bards to equal your power."
Daemon fell silent, his brain working overtime. Here he was in a car that seemed to be moving on its own, listening to an Elf he thought hadn't existed telling him that he was the last hope for a dying world.
But what if he was just dreaming? What if he somehow woke up and found himself thrown back into his pain-filled life where he no longer had a purpose? Could he risk that?
"What is your choice, Daemon Kincaid?" came that soft voice, breaking into his thoughts. "Do you wish to end your life now, travel to the lands of your God? Or do you wish to have a reason to live again?"
~A reason to live again...~ Those words tugged on his heart. He knew somehow that this was true, that he wasn't going to be taken back to that awful place he called home. "Besides," Morrigan always told him, "what fun is life if you don't take risks?"
Daemon turned to the Elf and nodded. "I want to come with you."
Smiling, Legolas reached out and took Daemon's hand---the boy shivered at the contact---and both disappeared in a blinding light.
--------------------------------------
It wasn't an hour later that the police found the car, wrapped around a tree. No body could be found, but there was no way any one could have survived a crash like that.
Morrigan and Daemon's mother held each other as they wept, reaching out with love and comfort as well as arms. His father stood a little ways away, looking shocked.
Morrigan's heart ached with a fierce emptiness, but she couldn't help but offer a smile as she turned a tear-stained face to the sky. ~I hope you're in a better place, my friend. And I hope that you sing forever.~
----------------------------------
Please review. I would like to know if it's too idiotic or not before I give this to him. I hope to have another chapter up soon.