A Road Less Traveled

Rating: T for violence and cursing.

Disclaimer: Nope, sorry, folks. It's still not mine. Middle-earth and all that inhabit it are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien, and I am likely doing him a great disservice by writing this kind of junk.


Chapter Two: Calling Bluffs

I don't know if any of you have ever had the "pleasure" of undergoing anything similar to my latest predicament, but to those of you who haven't, just allow me to say that it is extremely disconcerting to wake and find yourself trussed up like the neighbor's Christmas goose.

The goose would have had more leeway, I'm sure.

It was late in the day when I finally returned to the land of the living and, for a few wondrous moments, I honestly believed that the entire ordeal had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream. Granted, I was lying on my side on the cold, damp ground and felt as though a jackhammer had taken up permanent residence at the back of my skull, but I have a lovely way of ignoring the obvious, you see. So, in those first few glorious minutes upon my waking, I had little to support the notion that the events of that morning had actually taken place and were not, in fact, the result of a late-night craving for sesame chicken.

But spawned of Asian-style poultry they were not, I soon discovered when I slowly opened my eyes and subjected myself to the bright light of the afternoon. Needless to say, I immediately regretted that particular decision as blinding pain assailed my senses with the force of a lightning bolt, and it took everything I had to fight back the nausea that threatened to put last night's carte du jour on display. Eyes slamming shut, I forced down the bile that rose in my throat and proceeded to curse Ming's Szechwan Palace to the depths of Hell and back.

"Bloody Hell," I managed to gasp once I'd regained my breath. Unfortunately, my reprieve from sickness was short-lived, and I had all of three seconds to launch myself to my knees before my stomach gave another horrid lurch and the contents of the rebelling organ forced their way into the open air. To this day, how I kept from puking all over myself remains a mystery to me.

Damn, did Liz and Dave get me drunk last night? was the only thought my muddled brain could concoct at that moment. I supposed it was possible, considering that my head felt as if it'd had a close encounter with a meat cleaver. And if that wasn't evidence enough for my newest theory, I currently paid homage to the porcelain gods—minus the shrine, of course. So, yes, it seemed that a hangover was a likely explanation.

If only I were so lucky…

With one final heave, I sat back on my butt and raised a hand to wipe my mouth, only to discover the task made nearly impossible because my wrists had been bound together.

"What the-?" I murmured, giving the bonds an experimental tug.

And then it all came flooding back to me: Agreeing to an early morning hike with my moronic friends, wondering away from the trail, stumbling upon Robin Hood and his merry band, staring down an arrow, antagonizing the self-proclaimed "Gandalf..." All of it came rushing back with a vengeance.

I felt as though I had been doused with icy water and a fear unlike anything I had ever known settled over me like a fog. No, my current dilemma wasn't just some bizarre hallucination brought on by take-out or one too many mojitos. I was actually tied-up, staring down at a puddle of my own refuse, and in the hands of several nut jobs who were obviously in severe need of reality checks. I seriously doubt that I have ever screamed quite so loudly in all my life.

I was in utter hysterics by the time someone—well, more than one "someone," judging from the racket—came crashing through the undergrowth. I, unfortunately, was far too concerned with absolutely freaking out to pay them any mind and, now that I think about it, the next few minutes were really rather embarrassing, seeing how I have always prided myself on being pretty level-headed. It's a rare moment when I lose my composure, and I usually try to keep my emotions firmly in check. That's not to say I'm cold-hearted or anything, though: I just believe that there is a time and place for everything.

Then again, it's not every day that one is kidnapped by a bunch of Camelot rejects.

Hey, even I'm entitled to a total breakdown every once in a while.

I jerked away with a shriek when a hand fell on my shoulder and my voice was entirely too high pitched for my liking as I said, "Don't touch me!"

"Calm yourself, child." It was "Gandalf" who spoke. "'Tis only Aragorn and I."

And he's says that like it should comfort me, I thought madly while struggling to get as far away from the pair as humanly possible. Half-crazed, I staggered to my feet, nearly tripping due to the change in my center of balance and, yet, before I could take so much as take a step, I once again found myself ensnared in someone's arms.

The thick scent of leather, sweat, and something vaguely reminiscent of mint washed over me, but it did nothing to ease my nerves. Rather, it served to set me off quite nicely as it was an obviously masculine odor. Letting fly a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush, I began to flail wildly in what I knew were "Aragorn's" arms. Honestly, someone should teach the man something about personal space because he had a tendency to invade mine way too often.

"Damn it all!" I snarled, fighting wildly to free myself. "Let me go, you oaf!"

"Please, my lady," "Aragorn" beseeched as he shifted his grip on my arms. "Be still. We shan't harm you."

Of course, being the stubborn female that I am, I completely ignored him and, if anything, my struggles grew more frantic. Not only that, I could feel heat begin to build at the corners of my eyes and realized that I was close to tears as well. That knowledge alone was enough to transform terror into rage. To think that these screwballs had delivered me to the brink of my sanity in the short time I had spent with them was more than enough to infuriate me. I eventually snapped, too, much to "Aragorn's" detriment.

When I fell still, I felt him stiffen behind me as if he recognized that I was up to something. Granted, I was indeed "up to something," but he didn't need to know that. Drawing a harsh breath through my nose, I turned my head enough to gaze at him from the corner of my eye and hissed, "Let go."

And that was all the warning I gave before I slammed my foot down upon his with as much strength as I could muster. The shock of the blow made him loosen his grip on my arms and, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I twisted free and rammed my elbow into his gut. The air knocked from his lungs, the "Ranger" doubled over and I tore completely from his grasp.

My first thought was to run and I probably would have followed through with that idea had I not spun around to find myself face to face with "Gandalf."

Or, rather, the business end of his staff.

"I fear I have lost my patience with you, child. Cease this foolishness," he ordered, moving forward as I took a floundering step back, and I felt the blood drain from my face when a hand suddenly wrapped itself around my upper arm. The grip was nearly crushing and I knew straight away that it wasn't "Aragorn," whose hold was strong, but never harsh. Besides, the "son of Arathorn" still lingered off the side, one hand braced against a tree as the other cradled his stomach.

Warm breath brushed against my ear and I froze. "Move and it shall be the death of you." The warning was driven home when what I was certain was an "Elvish" blade pressed into my side.

Oh, God, where the Hell did he come from? I thought frantically as I stared down the length of "Gandalf's" staff and tried—unsuccessfully, I might add—to ignore the fact that I was within a hair's breadth of being gutted like a fish.

Even so, I remained curiously brave and, raising my chin haughtily, I said, "You wouldn't."

At those words, the tip of the knife bore a little deeper into my flesh. "Dare you tempt me, mortal?"

I just couldn't help myself. Really, I couldn't.

Sheer terror will do that to you, you know.

"Entertain thoughts of murder often, 'Legs'?" I inquired cheekily, though I could fairly feel the "Elf's" anger radiate from him. As you've probably noticed by now, I totally lack any sort of self-preservation instinct. Well, actually, I think most people would deem it a lack of common sense, but who's to say? Truly, it's a wonder I'd survived to the age of twelve, let alone twenty-two.

It was "Gandalf," however, who decided it was best that I shut up unless I wished for "Legolas" to expose my internal organs to the world. "Hush, child," he insisted, "lest the Elven prince silence you himself."

"Oh, please," I retorted before I could stop myself. "He doesn't have it in him."

"I would suggest that you heed his warning, girl," "Legolas" hissed, and I gasped when the blade suddenly broke the skin above my hip and something warm began to trickle down towards the waistline of my jeans. Then, without any real idea of how I'd gotten there, I found myself, face-down, on the ground, my arms pinned beneath me while a knee dug harshly into the center of my back.

Livid didn't even begin to describe me in that moment. The stupid "Elf" had actually stabbed me. It wasn't anything major, I knew—probably nothing more than a scratch—but it stung like the dickens and pushed me completely over the edge.

"Get the fuck off me, you bastard!" I snarled as I strained against the "Elven Prince's" weight.

Evidently in the eyes of the "Elvenking's son," tossing me around like a Nurf ball wasn't wound enough for my pride because he had the audacity to chuckle as well. "Perhaps now we shall get the answers we seek, hmm?" the "Elf" said quite amiably before shifting slightly, and I cursed fluently as his knee pressed into my spine.

Now, to clear up any misconceptions anyone might have of my opinions regarding the Prince of Mirkwood, I, too, had always thought that Legolas was somewhat mild-mannered. A bit of a fruit maybe, with all his "I go to find the sun—"crap on Caradhas, but gentle as Tolkien's Elves supposedly were. But as I lay there, trapped between him and the hard earth, I found that my previous outlook on the so-called "Eldar" had all but bit the dust.

Figures, I mused irritably. I get the one "Elf" in "Middle-earth" with a stick up his ass. You know, under any other circumstances, I would have, without a doubt, cracked up at that particular thought. But, then, it was kind of hard to laugh when said "Elf" was trying his damnedest to rearrange my vertebrae.

"I'm not telling you bastards anything," I spat as I continued to try and squirm out from under "Legolas." "Damn it! Get the Hell off me!"

"My, such filthy language for one so young," "Gandalf" commented over my tirade, and I could tell that he was struggling to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Twisting my neck to the side, I scowled up at him and snarled, "Oh, you haven't heard anything yet!"

"Of that I'm sure," replied the "Wizard" with a laugh.

"You think this is funny, old man?" I asked crossly.

"Quite," he answered casually and, with that said, he turned to "Aragorn." "Come. Let us leave her." He cast me another amused glance. "Perhaps the cold of night will loosen her tongue."

My mouth fell open as I gaped at him. Surely, he wasn't serious. They couldn't just leave me there, tied up and alone…

Could they?

What are you thinking, you moron? I was swift to censure myself. Of course, they can. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to dwell further on "Gandalf" or his shoddy reasoning as I was hauled unceremoniously to my knees and all but dragged over to the base of a tree.

"What the—what are you doing?" I screeched.

"Legolas" didn't respond: He just threw me on my ass. I winced and swore, but, before I could launch myself at him, "Aragorn" came to the rescue and restrained me. Still, I thrashed against his grasp and very nearly gave myself a concussion when my head slammed into his chin while he knelt beside me. The man jerked out of the way, then threw his arm across my chest so that my head flew back and collided roughly with the tree trunk. I supposed that reaction was his revenge for my winding him and, dazed, I abandoned my fight.

For the moment, anyway.

"My apologies, my lady," I heard "Aragorn" say as I squeezed my eyes shut, "but you must cease these struggles."

Skull aching, I cracked an eye open and glared at him. "Oh, shut up." He frowned at my response and, for some reason, he reminded me in that moment very much of my father whenever I said something sarcastic or, otherwise, rude as a child.

Not that I'm derisive by nature or anything…

"Very well," he said after a moment and, turning from me, he fell into quiet conversation with "Legolas" as the "Elf" worked to bind my ankles.

So much for him shutting up…

Perhaps it would be prudent at this point to mention that it is exceedingly frustrating to know that one is being talked about—right in front of one's face, no less—and be unable to do anything about it because those doing the talking might just as well be discussing the weather. Not that it mattered to me at that moment because I was sure they spoke in "Elvish" simply to hack me off.

I looked up when the conversation ended abruptly and watched warily as "Aragorn" and "Legolas" rose.

"We will return in a few hours time," explained "Aragorn." "Perhaps then you will be willing to cooperate."

"I highly doubt it," I rejoined as I glowered at them.

"Do as you wish, then, lady," was the weary response. I didn't bother to answer and, instead, turned my head to the side and refused to even grace them with my attention. As I closed my eyes, I heard something that sounded very much like a sigh before something brushed away the hair that had fallen across my face. My head shot up and I fixed "Aragorn" with a piercing look.

Kneeling, he gazed at me for a long minute and then, in a soft voice, said, "I wish you to know that we have no desire to be cruel."

"Well, you sure as Hell had me fooled," I answered sharply.

The "Ranger's" jaw tightened. "I apologize," he offered before he glanced down at my hands, still tied and resting in my lap. His brow furrowed suddenly and, upon following his gaze, I discovered that the flesh nearest the ropes was raw and red from my escape efforts. It burned, but I hadn't noticed; I had been too wrapped up in cursing.

His brow creasing slightly, the "Ranger" studied the abused skin intently and asked, "Are the bonds too tight?"

The question surprised me. I mean, I was their captive, after all. They shouldn't have cared for their prisoner's comfort.

It was then that I looked at him. No, I mean, I really looked at him, at this man who claimed to be Aragorn, son of Arathorn and, to be frank, I didn't know how he thought he could pass for the lost heir of Isildur. He didn't resemble anything I had ever imagined while reading the books—not that my imaginings were anything like what Tolkien probably intended—and certainly not like Viggo Mortensen. His appearance should have been my first clue, I guess: It would have told me that I wasn't in Kansas anymore, but, as I've said before, I have a tendency to overlook what's right in front me.

Or just avoid it like the plague, which was the course of action I'd chosen in this case.

Seriously, though, "Aragorn" is hard to describe. It was kind of creepy, really, the way he was both young and old at once. At first glance, he could have passed for being in his middle to late thirties. His hair was dark, nearly black, though it was beginning to lighten just a bit near his temples, and there were faint lines around his mouth and along his forehead.

He had a strong jaw and straight nose and, yet, like "Legolas," his eyes were the feature that immediately captured my notice. They were the strangest shade of blue I had ever seen; almost gray, though not quite. It wasn't their color, however, that made the orbs so catching and—well, unnerving. No, it was the manner in which they could be so warm and kind, yet so stern and sad, all at the same time. My grandfather would have said that they were wise eyes, ones that had seen much since their first opening. Overall, though, I suppose one could say that "Aragorn" was handsome—in a roguish, mannish sort of way, of course.

"My lady?" The "son of Arathorn's" voice snapped me back to the present, and I blinked.

"No," I answered finally. "No, they're fine."

Well, fine, if you disregard the fact I'm freaking tied up in the first place! I ignored that particular line of thought and forced myself to focus on "Aragorn."

The man dipped his head briefly and got to his feet. Gazing down at me, he said, "As you say, my lady. We will return at dusk."

Save a vague nod, I offered no response and then watched him turn to gesture for "Legolas" to follow him before the two of them disappeared into the trees. Once they were out of sight, I closed my eyes, a bit mystified by that whole episode, and sank back to rest against the tree.

I figured I might as well get comfortable: I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.


Revised: 3/20/2012