"Oh no. You are not about to mess with Middle Earth."
So proclaimed the author, and self-proclaimed demi-god of her original realms. This meant, of course, that she had no authority and got no respect from any of her characters—and even less from those who were actually competent or well-developed.
This included Ibial Lazugaudi.
At the sight of his Cheshire smile, her head hit the desk in a Slump of Defeat, "Then please, please don't go into movieverse? Please?"
Ibial tossed a haphazard little wave over his shoulder as he stepped through the full-length mirror, "Where ever Death travels, so do I. Death is my business after all…"
Yeah. With that excuse he could probably step into any canon and be a meddlesome, irritating mofo. So be it. The author sat down at her laptop to write.
~~!~~~~~~!~~
The question of course was where? Where should he step in? At what point in time should he make his appearance? If Ibial recalled correctly, the Gods—or was it God—of the realm of Middle Earth wasn't a very active power among the mortals of the realm. The elves of that realm, if he recalled, were lordly, blessed, beautiful. The humans probably would react as humans always did—with dull-witted misunderstanding.
The orcs…Ibial let that thought drift as he passed through the coldness that existed between realms. In the middle of a battle mayhaps? It would be the easiest, certainly, to pass into the realm where Death pooled the strongest. He could cut directly into the realm that way, without the magical ripples that would announce his presence.
But that would hardly be fun, would it? No no, not at all.
Ibial stroked his pointed goatee, floating in the inbetween. If he stayed too long, he might end up getting a foot stuck between realms. It had happened once, an experience he was not quite ready to repeat so soon. Directing his thoughts to a point in time of ominous and imminent despair, Ibial stepped through.
~~!!~~~~~~!!~~
Elves don't scream often. A battle cry, perhaps, a warning, maybe. But a near bloodcurdling scream, almost never.
Arwen Undómiel had been much more than startled as a gaunt, pale wraith of a man stepped through her full-length dressing mirror. Terrified was probably the better term, and it was not used lightly. She clutched her dress to her naked body, trying to move strategically to the wardrobe where she could at least stand behind the door in an attempt at noble modesty.
"Oh. Heh-heh. Forgive me," Said the stranger, turning to face her with an eerie gaze, "I seem to have come in at the wrong mirror." Arwen continued to stare at him for a moment, and he continued speaking.
"I meant to come in one room down, you see." His robes rustled around his ankles as he walked lightly across the room and toward the door to exit. He stopped there, as the exit seemed to be blocked by a wall of menacing blades. Weapons that said they'd ask questions later.
"Speak quickly, if you desire to keep your life." Said an elf who could only be assumed to be a captain of sorts, he had the shiniest sword.
"A cup of tea would be wonderful." Said the black-haired stranger, as a smile split his face.
It only occurred to Arwen later (when she recovered herself and had time to dress) that he had spoken in perfect and unaccented elven.
~~!!~~~~~~!!~~
"But that has not explained your presence here," The Lord of Rivendell sat across from the stranger—Ibial as he had cheerfully introduced himself as they had tea on the terrace. Elrond's hands were folded in his lap as he again examined the man who had intruded upon his daughter's private chambers.
Ibial cradled his teacup in his boney hands, "Doesn't it? It makes perfect sense to me, after all. I thought boredom as plausible a cause as any for any action of mine."
"But why have you come?" Elrond tried desperately to keep his expression level, though he was rather frustrated with all this.
"Does there have to be a reason for everything here?" Elrond thought he might develop a permanent ache at his temples. With a tired, brief slump of his shoulders, the elven Lord realized he would have to be very, very careful with his phrasing.
"Let me start at the beginning then," Elrond gratefully accepted a fresh cup of tea from a servant, "Who and what are you?" Elrond scrutinized Ibial. He had the most unnerving silver eyes—sunken slightly and with ghastly white pupils. Sharp cheekbones accentuated his corpselike appearance—and his physique was terrible and wasted. Yet he somehow retained a strikingly memorable magnetism.
"I am many things," Ibial waved a slender hand lazily through the air, as if stirring it, "Among them, a Professor, a magic-wielder, a daemon, an eccentric." Elrond shifted in his chair as a brisk breeze swooped in briefly from the north.
"…and I am also due to teach class in ten minutes—fancy that." Elrond blinked as Ibial stood, and rose as well. He continued talking, "The tea was lovely, thank you. It did wonders for my stomach. I find the view most attractive too—perhaps I shall visit again sometime."
"I—wait a moment—" But Ibial walked purposefully toward Elrond's chambers, stepping through the mirror with some strange and unnatural magic.
"Ta-ta~" Were the magician's cheery parting words.
It was at this point that a messenger arrived to inform Elrond that Gandalf the Grey had arrived—and wasn't exactly in the best of shape. The headache grew in intensity.