Ok guys, so this is my first fic, and for those of you who have read this before, you may notice a few changes. I recently received a PM which pointed out some things I hadn't noticed (I face-palmed a lot as I read it) and after that I went through all the chapters when I realised...a major part of my plot had not been properly exhibited in the first chapter! Guess I was so excited I just glossed over it! So I re-read it and thought "You know what? I can make this miles better!" So I gave it a go and I think this has come out much better! I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Middle-Earth and all its characters belong to Sir Tolkein (With the exception of some of Peter Jacksons additions) I do not own the universe or the story, but the main OC, any furture OCs and the altered plot line involving my OC/s are mine.
Chapter 1 - Late for the Party
Childhood. Such a funny word.
It seems to imply that, as children, we are hooded by our own youth, blanketed by it. As though being a child is protection in just being so.
Everything to do with children has this air of innocence, sometimes condescendingly so. Our television shows are bright and airy, our books are simple, our toys are soft.
I suppose that's what makes the bad things that happen to children, even more horrifying when they happen.
Take, for example, children's music. When a bad thing happens, you expect silence. Or screaming. You expect a noise that sends a shiver down your spine, that raises the hair on your arms and gives you goosebumps. The sounds that freeze you in place, that make you too afraid to turn to look over your shoulder, to take that next step towards the indefinable something. You expect sounds that are horrifying.
You do not expect a nursery rhyme.
The poor child in question, is a girl. The girl shudders in the dark, afraid. Oh, so afraid. Eight years is too young, too young to discover that the monsters don't really hide under the bed, but she can't think of that, not right now. Not when she can see her daddy laying just out of reach, so still. Too still.
Her bedroom is, clearly, a child's bedroom. The wall paper is pale and covered in roses, the shelves have an array of the soft toys and small books mentioned before. It had not long ago been her birthday, and she'd been gifted a musical CD player, bright pink in colour. It once matched her floor.
But now her floor is a shade of purple-black that shines in the moonlight streaming through her window. The CD player sits on the floor, and cheerful music pours out from its speakers at the same high volume the girl had been playing it at earlier in the day. The music is not tinny, or distorted, as the player itself remains unharmed, the blinking orange light glowing and fading rhythmically.
Ring a-ring o' roses...
Sings the cheerful, melodic voice of some unknown young woman.
The child holds her Flopsy-bunny harder against her mouth to hold in her whimper.
Her daddy once told her she needn't worry about the monsters who hid under her bed, he'd always scare them away for her. But he couldn't scare away these monsters, and now it was her hiding under the bed.
Tears stream hot and sticky down her face, as the bed springs bounce and scream above her head, protesting the harsh weight and movement put upon them.
A pocket full of posies...
Her mother screams too, protesting in wordless agony as the monster rams into her again and again.
A-tishoo...
Still the girl hides under the bed, her knuckles turning white as the grip Flopsy-bunny, not a sound escaping her. Even when the monster finishes, even when a knife slices through flesh as he slits her mothers throat. Even when the blood drips down from the edges of the matress to collect in a puddle so close to her face.
A-tishoo...
The a hand reaches under the bed and grasps her ankle, his fingers scraping and catching on her skin like claws, clutching tightly, no hope of escape. Flopsy-bunny falls from her fingers as she sucks in her first full, panicked breath.
We all...
She screams and screams.
"Mummy! Daddy!"
Fall...
Nothing.
Down...
Sometimes it's easier to describe a horrendous thing, by simply stating it. Listing it. Be blunt and say the facts, and this horrifying, terrible thing almost seems...less so. Or at least, that's what we like to imagine.
Take this, for example.
The room was cold.
Simple enough, yes? But that small, insignificant sentence holds so much more. The horrors behind the simplicity of a cold room. If it were only that simple, you could put on a coat, or a blanket.
She couldn't.
She'd been there for hours, for days, for weeks. Her Flopsy-bunny was gone, and nothing could give her the bravery, the strength, she needed. And so she let the sobs and whimpers shudder through her small body unhindered. The Monster had left her pyjama bottoms on, but her shirt had been torn from her back as he'd tied her to the wall and left her with his men.
Every gust that travelled through the room caressed its way across her bare flesh, her knees had long ago turned numb where they knelt, pressed harshly against the hard floor. Everything was pale and grey, even her skin seemed to turn to the same colour as the walls. Whenever she dared to look up, The Monsters men stared at her with their dead, grey eyes.
He'd told her he'd be back soon, when he'd left. But that had been so long ago now.
She hoped he'd never come back.
So, you see, the room was so much more than "cold".
She screamed.
An agony she'd never before dreamt of even in her most awful nightmares seared through both her body and her mind. The hot metal was being pushed against her back so hard. Even then, it wasn't even the point of contact that hurt the most. No, that was more the feeling of a painful pressure as they applied the metal brand between her shoulders. The truly awful pain seemed to move through her veins, to travel across her skin from the point of contact until it consumed her.
But the smell was so much worse.
It was thick, acrid, and achingly sweet as it swirled though the air and forced it way though her nose. She swallowed that smell, every particle of that awful smoke clawed its way into her throat, sticking to her mouth. Her tongue seemed to fuse to the roof of her mouth as she gagged and cried, pulling against her captors to no avail.
In the back of her mind she remembered a time when her teacher told her about Volcanoes, how they contained the hottest thing on earth. That's what this felt like, it felt like being swallowed up by magma. The monster chanted words as she cried, and the sweet scent of magic mixed with the smell of her burning flesh, making her head spin and her stomach roll with nausea.
She didn't feel it when the brand was pulled away, but when the cold, chemical smelling water was thrown over her back, the pain became intolerable, and as the footsteps and the laughter faded away, she closed her eyes.
On the girls back, between her shoulder blades, were three circles. The first, largest circle, was placed between and just below her shoulder-blades, with two smaller, though identical, ones slightly lower on either side. The circles were intricate, filled with swirling patterns and harsh lines, and if you were to watch them for a short length of time, they would appear to shift and move, reforming into strange scenes and faces and creatures. Then you'd blink, and they'd just be circles again.
The only way the girl could measure the passage of time was through these circles, by twisting her head just right, she could just about see the edges of them. Where once, they'd been red, blistering and raw, they were now smooth. They were raised slightly from the rest of her body, but the colour was now a pale pink, only slightly darker than her own skin tone.
That was the only way she knew, that she'd been here a long time.
She'd been here so long, that she'd even forgotten her name.
They called her "Bitch" and "It" and The Monster would call her "Devil's Whore". She didn't know these words, but she didn't like them at all.
What she did know, was "The Routine".
We're going to make a horrific thing sound less so again, we're going to boil it down to a simple string of sentences, and it's going to seem not so bad. The only problem really, is that it is bad. The girl has just forgotten that there's good.
The routine begins at night, when they start with the whip. At first that's all they'd use, as though they were building up her tolerance. But then they began to get more creative. Now they only use the whip once, maybe twice, before moving onto worse things.
Perhaps, "Worse" is all you need for now. Just like "The room is cold", "The torture gets worse".
They'd always stop before dawn. Sometimes they'd throw that horrible, stinging, chemical-water over her, sometimes they wouldn't.
Once dawn came, those circles began to tingle and glow with the light of the sun, that would shine through the one small window way above her head, and her injuries would fade down into small, healed tissue that would rise only slightly from her skin.
All so they could do it again the next night without killing her.
The Monster visited her, sometimes.
And that was worse than the torture.
It might be important to note that he would always visit her in the afternoon. The light from the window would shine directly into the middle of the cold room, and The Monster would pace around the perimeter, which would be almost black as pitch with the thickness of the shadows lingering there.
And though he never laid a hand on her, he'd tell her terrible, terrible things.
"Wake up! Devil's little whore aren't ya? The little bitches daughter! She was a witch and you're the fucked up result of her relations with the devil! This is divine retribution!" his voice was rough and crumbly, like he'd smoked a pack a day for his whole life, and he'd shout with such passion that she'd shrink back from his voice alone. He'd see her tears and his voice would drop, soften, as though he were lost, "You should be thanking me...This is...this is..." but he'd never tell her, he never really told her why. I suppose that could be the very worst thing. She was never told why.
The Monsters men were sitting in her room today, watching a game of football on a small telly they'd brought in with them. In most scenes where something terrible is occurring, you expect silence. But it was almost as though the terrible thing wasn't really there.
The two men were sat, on a rugged though well stuffed sofa. A bag of popcorn and a bag of Wotsits propped between their legs as they leant forward, elbows on knees, staring at the small, flickering screen.
The tinny voice of the male commentator blared out alongside the fans cheers, and every now and again the pair would also suddenly jump, shouting in glee or disappointment. The evidence lay at their feet, where a collection of popcorn and cheesy crisps lay.
The scene would be almost normal.
If you didn't look just over their shoulders, focus behind the small TV, to see a small, golden haired girl, chained to the wall by her wrists.
She simply stared at her chains, not moving. A few stray pieces of popcorn or Wotsit had also made their way towards her during the ad breaks, when the two men became bored and attempted to get a reaction from her by throwing food. None was forthcoming.
But right now there was something, something she desperately needed to know.
"How...long" she choked out, just loud enough to be heard over the rapid voice of the television.
"What'd you say, bitch?" called one man, his eyes not leaving the screen.
"How long have I been here?" she coughed out.
The two men looked at each other and laughed, jolting the pack of Wotsits to the floor again.
Bending down to collect the bag, the first speaker said, "Oh, just two years is all."
Two years. She was ten.
"And there's plenty more to go!" said the second, walking over to kick her in the chest, before rushing back to the sofa, yelling in glee at a victory on the screen.
She grunted, she barely felt pain any more. But she was quick, she was quiet, and she was clever. She'd been listening, and she had that strong childish confidence that she could do magic. She did small things often, like now, when she sent her awareness down and…there. She had a cracked rib from that kick.
But the sun was out and that made her strong; she pulled the light through the circled runes on her back, and directed it through her body like blood through a vein and sent it to her rib. Healing it as though it had never happened.
But she was still too small, too little. She still needed her Mummy and Daddy to come and rescue her.
But they never did. The were never coming.
So, small and ten, she rescued herself.
Gandalf found her. He'd been travelling towards the Shire for one of his brief visits, he was quite looking forward to the firework display he had planned for them, when he saw a bright flash of light in the distance, quickly followed by the smell of a forest burning.
He'd prepared himself for any manner of foe to be revealed in the charred, ashy centre of the burnt forest, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of a small girl, her flaming red hair laying in a dirty cap against her head, naked but for the scars on her back and the dirt on her face.
He knelt down in front of her, and she looked blankly at him, no fear, but no acceptance either.
"Oh, my dear girl," he murmured, "What happened to you then, hm?" she tilted her head at the sound of his soft rumbling voice, pausing, weighing him in before responding flatly, "Many things."
He hummed again, looking away into the distance, before nodding to himself and standing fully again, reaching his hand down to her.
"I suppose then, I should be taking you with me." She looked at his hand, then back to him.
Gandalf smiled softly at the child's hesitancy, "Come now, what's your name?"
Gold eyes met grey and the girl also offered up a small smile, "Magma," She said softly, sliding her small hand into his own large one, "I'm Magma."
It had been ten years since the day Gandalf had found her, he'd taken her in, taught her all he could of how to harness the energy of the sunlight that flowed through her, and, despite her quirks, saw her as a daughter.
One quirk he could never quite get over, however, was her tendency to walk around, in the woods of her home, naked.
He'd broken her of the habit of walking around in the nude when they first travelled together, but even then, he'd sometimes catch her walking around with very little, if indeed any, clothing on.
Once Magma turned 18, he'd allowed her the use of a small cottage in a hidden wood, where she could do as she pleased whilst he wandered.
Magmas' lips quirked up at the thought of the wizard, and she couldn't help but wonder what he'd been up to since she'd seen him last year. He'd arrived at her cottage with a bundle of finely made travel clothing in her favourite colours, and two silver knives which came with a belt to lay across her hips, as a present for her twentieth birthday. Though she'd never used a knife in real combat before, they were undoubtedly beautiful, and she was very grateful.
She was bathing in the sun, stretched out across a flattened section of grass in her garden, enjoying the tingles that ran through the runes on her back whilst the breeze ghosted over her bare skin.
Small droplets of water balanced gently on her skin, and with each breath she took, a few would tremble and fall, running down her body to land in the grass below. It was an interesting effect, as some of the scars from her childhood had healed better than others, and the few that were raised caught the water, giving them an odd sheen in the sunlight.
From a distance, the now grown woman bared little resemblance to that frightened girl. Her hair had grown and became slightly lighter, flaring out around her hips in thick golden curls. She'd gained weight and muscle from all the rich food Gandalf had provided, her body curvaceous yet small and muscular, giving her a sleek appearance. Her skin was pale and appeared almost blemish free.
Until you got closer.
Up close, you could easily see three scars that were the same colour as the rest of her, but were slightly raised. Each was a result from her childhood, times when the injury had been left too long before the sun rose and could therefore not be healed perfectly.
On even closer inspection, you could even see a few spots where the skin seemed to change colour, some areas paler or pinker than the rest. These were simply caused by serious, or large, injuries, some of which had occurred during her time with Gandalf.
It would not be until she rolled onto her front that your breath would catch in your throat. Her back was a map of lines and patches. Thin and small, long and short, raised and flat, her back was a tapestry of torture. Though nothing quite stood out like those three circles branded into her shoulders.
She'd never been disgusted of them, nor afraid of them. They were a part of her. And so she sighed the happy, carefree sigh of someone who truly holds not a care in the world.
Balls of glowing light floated in the small glade around her, weaving in and out of the tall foxgloves, fragrant lavender bushes, and thick grasses. These were of no concern, for she had created them herself.
The very same globes of light where also floating lazily around her cottage. After all, who needs guard dogs?
Suddenly, one of the globes shot towards her, vibrating and buzzing manically above her face. She frowned, sitting up to catch the ball in her hand, peering into its glowing depths to see what had triggered the alarm.
The frown was quickly replaced by a smile, as she leapt up to run towards her cottage, agile legs carrying her over plant, rock, and root with practised ease.
When she arrived at her door, she allowed all but two of her globes to fade, before creating a thin golden dress to cover herself, she knew how strict her visitor was about her state clothing, before entering.
Gandalf sat in the largest chair in the cottage, which had pride of place beside the fire. Magma had built it for him herself with her light, after he had complained that all her chairs were far too small; crafting a magnificent crystal chair streaked through with golden colours, depicting deeds of heroes fighting dragons, of fireworks over fields, and a variety of animals chasing in a never ending game. Gandalf was very proud to call it his.
He sat slightly hunched over, taking pulls from his pipe and looking deeply into her fire.
"Gandalf!" She cried happily.
"Magma my dear!" the old wizard smiled in response, opening his arms to receive her joyful embrace.
"It's been so long!" she sighed, as she sat into her small wooden chair opposite his own, pulling her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, "What brings you?"
The grey wizard looked at the sun witch, eyes sparkling.
"How would you like to go on an adventure?"
Magma had begun to seriously question her sanity.
Why, in the name of Light had she agreed to this?
"Oh yes Gandalf," she muttered to herself, "why not? Let's just hop on over to collect a group of Dwarves. Oh! And let's not forget the Hobbit too! Then just skip our way to a perilous mountain, and finally jump straight into the maw of a fire breathing dragon! Yes, a fine adventure that'll be!"
She was wet, she was muddy, and she doubted she ever worn so many articles of clothing in her life. A thin green undershirt, covered by a slightly thicker, darker green shirt, well those alone were making her feel uncomfortable. But then she had to add the dark gold under bust corset, thick green leggings, dark brown boots with fur lining, and a deep green and gold cloak spread over her shoulders. Overall, she felt incredibly unnatural. Rolling her aching shoulders with a frustrated huff, she flicked her large hood up over her face in annoyance, glaring at the gravelly ground beneath her feet, kicking at a few loose stones before raising her head again.
"Where the hell am I anyway?" she sighed for perhaps the fiftieth time since travelling from her nice little cottage. The perks of having a secret magic cottage, she found, was that whenever she left the borders of the woods surrounding it, she was always teleported to somewhere in Middle-Earth that was often very close to the area she needed to be. And then, all she had to do would be to walk into a nearby woods thinking of home, and she'd be there.
In this instance, she'd been transported just outside of Bree, and so had spent the past two days walking towards Hobbiton. Having passed the sign some time ago, she was left wandering around the small area, looking at each door she passed, hoping it would be the one she was looking for. Night had fallen near two hours ago and she was still lost.
Grumbling to herself about the nuisance caused by a certain wizard, and what was it with men and directions anyway, Magma almost missed a slight glow coming from the door of a rather large hobbit hole she'd already passed three times previously.
Upon closer inspection she realised that it was the very sigil Gandalf had described to her, but once she looked closer, she realised that she should've noticed this place earlier. It was the only home with the lights still on at this time of night! And she could distinctly hear the rumble of a large group of voices even before she reached the lovely gate leading to the hobbit hole.
Huffing a very world weary sigh, she clambered towards the path and knocked four times upon the door, hoping she would be heard through the chatter.
The house quite suddenly went silent.
She heard slight muttering through the wood of the door.
"Who's that?"
"Isn't this everyone?"
"Are we under attack?"
"Who knows we're here?"
"Don't open the door!"
That last voice was deep and strong, ringing with power, cutting through the worry and panic of the others.
She sighed once again, and leaning forward, raised her voice,
"I can hear you in there!"
Silence.
"Gandalf! Open the bloody door, I'm freezing!"
That same deep voice sounded again.
"You knew of another arrival?"
"Bilbo, would you mind answering the door? I believe you have another guest."
She could hear the shuffling of feet, before the door opened a crack, allowing warm light to spill out around her feet.
A hobbit stood there, looking weary and very much agitated.
Magma inclined her head slightly, "Magma, master Baggins, and a pleasure to meet you. May I come in?"
The hobbit blinked once, twice. A third time.
"Master Baggins?"
"Oh, oh!" he spluttered, "Of course! Of course! Do come in," he stepped aside and then looked to his ceiling, "after all, everyone else has." He sighed.
She couldn't help but be sorry for the poor fellow, "Well, I am very sorry to be adding to your burden, if there's anything I can do to help this evening, please let me know."
He looked up at her in shock.
She smiled down at him, he only came to her shoulder in height, and then looked about the small hobbit hole, the first she'd ever been in.
"Oh, Master Baggins," she breathed, "your home is beautiful." And it truly was, despite the dirt tracked over the shiny wooden floors, no doubt by the dwarves, and the weapons leant up against the otherwise homely wall decorations, again, a dwarven feature, this was the loveliest little house she'd ever entered.
She turned again to her host to see he was blushing, and he quickly looked away and cleared his throat at her gaze.
"Well, um, well yes, I mean thank you. It would have been much nicer without the dwarves here you see." He said, his voice hardening slightly at the end.
"Oh?" said Magma, raising her eyebrows.
"Oh yes! I'd just had this floor polished, and just look at what they've done to my mothers' glory box." He said impassioned, with a touch of woe to his features as he pointed out the box in question, clearly antique, sporting some interesting mud clumps as decoration.
"Not that I don't like company! No, I like hosting people for tea as much as the next Hobbit, but really!" he huffed
"Well," She said, reaching down to gently squeeze his shoulder, "that's nothing a strong rag, some soap water, and little help can't fix. What do you say? Once I've met the company, I'll come and help you clean up."
She hung her cloak up with the various other cloaks beside the door, and headed towards the still silent room where, no doubt, her soon to be companions were waiting.
Let me know what you thought of my altered beginning! Much love xx