Chapter 3: The Road Goes Ever On and On…and Never Seems to END
We had been walking for a really, really long time. Needless to say, my lazy ass was FAR from pleased. In fact, it was really DIS-pleased. I had a horrible headache, a scratchy, sore throat, and my shoulder was all nasty, burning, yucky, freaking starting to OOZE. Foul mood? I think freaking YES. Tiriel looked at me, making a rather worried face.
"Are you okay? You're looking kind of, um…"
"Like shit?"
She nodded, grinning at my, er, pleasant but accurate word choice.
"Yeah, kinda green, too…"
I sneezed and she whirled around to face me.
"You're not getting sick again, are you?"
Did I say I was in a bad mood? Because this reminder of that ridiculous collection of cells that were a few proteins short of a strand of DNA that claimed to call themselves my "immune system" had sufficiently thrown my mood down that one random hole in the ground in Sparta. Glorfindel, nosy bugger that he appears to be, led the horse and, unfortunately, its rider over to us and queried, "Lady Ilmarë, are you ill?"
Loonzie was chatting away about some nonsensical nonsense, and yes I realize that that particular statement is redundant, but if you heard her high, "fair" voice and managed to understand what she was saying, you would take the risk of reiterating just to press the point. I cringed and hissed at Glorfindel.
"Take her away. Please."
There was the slightest flicker of confusion in his face when he asked, "why?" I groaned, my hand clutching my head and angrily shoving a finger in his perfect face.
"Let me put it in terms even you can understand, Lord Glorfindel. Remember fighting the Balrog? Remember the whole 'drums in the deep' thing? Yeah, well those drums are currently in my head, pounding like there's a fucking Balrog stomping about in there! My throat burns like I just breathed in all that smoke and fire, and my shoulder feels like its been whipped. I am not in the mood to deal with the figurative stampede of goblins that run through my head every time I hear her voice."
As Loonzie chattered on from atop of poor, pitiable Asfaloth, Glorfindel closed his eyes. And then nodded. I smiled and exhaled in astute relief as he led his horse and its awful burden away. Ahhhhhhh, the bliss of Loonzie's silence. Which was blissful for only a few, precious, lingering moments before I coughed a little and she started exclaiming in disgust, "Ew, she's sick! Keep her away! I am much too beautiful and perfect to get sick!" I shot her my most vicious are-you-stupid look.
"Elves don't get sick, dumb ass! Not with colds and shit, at least!"
"How dare you call me by such a vile name! Surely, my lords, you will not stand for this wench insulting one of your own?"
They winced at that, it was rather hilarious, and I decided that I was sleepy. It's probably for the best, anyway, that I leave them to their blabbering, because my headache was getting worse. I found a nice patch of dirt floor with minimal grass. Normally, one would look for a makeshift bed of the opposite nature, but I'm allergic to grass, so…
"Night night…"
I closed my eyes and was fast asleep before I had time to complain about the dirt.
"When is she going to wake up?"
I took in a sharp, painful breath and found my eyes watering at the burning sensation that was currently ravaging my windpipe. And then coughed. Eru, I feel bloody awful. And damn, why am I talking like an elf? Oh yeah, just thought you might like to know, I remember everything that happened and promise not to go through all that wakes up and thinks it's a dream crap. So no worries.
"She shall awaken as soon as her body manages to shake off the illness. I am doing all I can to attend to her, but I cannot guess at when she will waken. Rest assured, though, that I will have someone call for you as soon as she does."
Deciding that I was now coherent enough to kill myself, since I had, no doubt, become a Mary Sue, I decided to skip the confused fluttering of the eyes and snap mine open, willing myself into an upright position because struggling is too cliché.
"No need. I'm up."
Guess who was standing at my bedside, radiating wisdom and lordliness and whatnot. Hold on a sec, I would have told you if you were right or not, but I started coughing, a scratchy, raspy sound that seemed to tear at my throat. Right, now that I can breathe a little, if you guessed the reigning Lord of Imladris, Wielder of Vilya, the greatest of the Three Rings, Owner of the Noble Brow, the greatest of all eyebrows, Mr. Anderson, Arwen's Daddy, and Aragorn's Perpetual Cock-block. OH MY GOD, I TOTALLY DIDN'T MEAN TO SAY THAT! WELL, THINK THAT! Um, well, what's past is past, right?
"Lady Ilmarë, how do you feel?"
I groaned.
"Like I got run over by a truck. Or maybe crushed under a steamroller…wait, you wouldn't get that…um…I feel like I just fought a Balrog. And, by some off chance, lived."
Elrond raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so…?"
I was about to answer him, in my own way, when I gasped, shot straight up, and started trying to disentangle myself from those pesky bed sheets.
"HOLY HOBBIT FEET! IT'S-"
I bit my tongue to keep from saying his real name. And rolled out onto the floor, my legs trapped in the stupid, soft, warm…ARGH, damn elvish goods, they're too perfect! I kicked said sheets off and coughed and wheezed my way over to a bed on the far side of the room. Well, the side farthest from my cot, which was only slightly off center. Once I could take in a deep, shuddering breath, I pounced.
"BROTHER!"
Needless to say, I screamed so loud, I could have woken the dead. Actually, I probably did, because my perhaps overly enthusiastic shout must have echoed in Mordor, and the dead army that lurks in the mountain was thus definitely within range. Ignoring whatever nonsense Elrond was saying about poor Kevin being in a coma-or, something to that effect at least-I shook his arm and then proceeded to be smacked in the face by his free hand.
"STUPID ARMADILLO!"
Suddenly, his eyes widened and he blinked in confusion.
"Sissy?"
I glared at him.
"You just smacked me in the face and called me an armadillo. You'd better have a rather incredible explanation for this, because I'm SO close to rounding your ears off again."
Yeah, did I mention that my old friend from high school had, like Tiriel, seemingly been turned elf? Damn, was I defective or something? How come everybody else turns elf and I end up still human? With some trepidation, I explained to my friend, in English, that he was now an elf and was trapped in Lord of the Rings with Alex, who was now Tiriel, and I, now known as Ilmarë. For some reason, he seemed to be struggling to believe me. I tried to talk some sense into him, viciously poking his arm to prove my point. My head was spinning, but I ignored it in favor of my mission. Of course, I had also been ignoring Lord Elrond's eyes boring holes in my back, but oh well.
"Lady Ilmarë, would you care to explain how you came to be here and what language you are speaking? Do not worry, your friend, Tiriel, has already spoken with us."
I winced as I saw that famed, single-raised-eyebrow-of-you'd-better-tell-me-now expression on his face. What does he mean, "do not worry?" HELL YES, WORRY! LORD KNOWS WHAT TIRIEL TOLD THEM! Awkwardly, I replied with an, "Er, yes, my lord…"
And thus, I ended up bursting into tears and sobbing at Elrond's feet about how all we (this being Tiriel and I) had been doing was going on a road trip to Harry Potter Land at Universal Studios in Florida, and that we didn't mean to hit Kevin, whose name was Thandraug, as far as Lord Elrond knew, and that it was really his fault because HE was the one wearing that ridiculous camouflage suit that was black and had the yellowish lines that are on the street printed on it, and that Tiriel couldn't be blamed for driving nor I for owning the car, and-
"Lady Ilmarë, please calm down! What is this about a 'car' and who is Harry Potter?"
At that point, I would have started wailing had I not suddenly succumbed to a nasty bout of coughing. Thandraug, as I now presumed to call him, shot me a droll look that clearly said something along the lines of, "wow, even when you get sucked into Middle Earth you manage to catch a cold. Skills." Needless to say-the expression I returned to him was far from pleasant. In fact-I'm quite sure it must have looked rather horrific, seeing as my eyes were red, and my face was flushed (from fever) and it is a known fact that my eyes look terrible when I cry because they are what has been called "Medusa eyes" because of the particular shade of "hazel" that they are. I still say they're brown, but they really do look like crap when I cry. Really.
"I hate you!"
He rolled his eyes.
"No you don't."
I leapt almost nimbly to my feet (except it wasn't really "nimbly" so much as I barely caught myself whilst falling over and it looked like I'd been intentionally graceful and dramatic) and then proceeded to literally have my feet slip out from beneath me and the next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, blinking at the ceiling and the pretty vortex of colors, listening to the soundtrack of…of…GAH! How could I forget the name of one of my favorite movies!
"Lady Ilmarë, you must not push yourself when you are so ill."
I winced at the sternly reprimanding tone. And then leapt up.
"PULP FICTION!"
Lord Elrond looked at me like I was insane. Which, considering I'm IN FREAKING LORD OF THE RINGS AND I FEEL LIKE I'M BECOMING A MARY SUE, I might be. Hmmm…if I'm going to be insane, I want to be insane like Murdock. That's my wish.
"Lady Ilmarë, please sit down. You are in no condition to be up and about-"
I let out a disgusted sigh and flopped back onto my little cot.
"Because I was poisoned? ARGH, that's so CLICHÉ! DAMN IT, I DON'T WANNA BE A-"
I was cut off by another wave of dizziness and some more coughing, but when I at last opened my eyes, I noted that the elven lord in front of me was looking at me with furrowed brows. What is it with all elves and their habit of expressing emotion through their eyebrows?
"Lady Ilmarë, you were not poisoned. You seem, rather, to have received a wound on your shoulder that was infected, and it is this that has made you all ill. You suffer from a very terrible case of human affliction that I have never seen before."
I gaped at him (unattractively).
"You mean-I'm not a Sue? Wait-is Gandalf here?"
The elven lord's brows furrowed even more.
"Gandalf? You are acquainted with Gandalf?"
I made a face as I considered it and decided to go with a very safe, noncommittal answer. (A.K.A. No, not at all.) Or at least, I meant to, but something possessed me to say something else.
"I would say I know very much of him, though he knows very little of me."
Maybe my conscience, (always the one to be suspiciously absent), had decided to act up for the decade? Because it was the truth that I had blurted, albeit a rather mysterious, actually safe and noncommittal version of it. Lord Elrond looked curious but evidently decided to drop the questioning. In favor of my health, perhaps?
"No, he is not here. Last I heard, he was traveling northwest, in the company of a band of dwarves. Does this mean anything to you?"
My mouth popped open. That's not Lord of the Rings at all! That's The Hobbit! So…
"I'm really not a Sue!"
I could have leapt up and started dancing to some crazy German clubbing music that only I could hear, but decided that the fact that my knees felt weak was enough justification to get me to simply stay put, lying down.
"Hey, um, Eel-mah-rey, where's um, big sister?"
I immediately (even through my fever-induced haze) recognized that he was brilliant enough (I don't know if I was being sarcastic or not there) to not say Alex's true name and nodded abruptly.
"Er, my lord Elrond, where is Lady Tiriel, the elf that was my traveling companion?"
And somehow, this innocent question lead to the most dramatic reunion scene EVER.
"MY BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! OH, SWEETIE, YOU'RE ALIVE!"
In case you were having trouble reconciling yourself with the fact, NO, I was NOT talking to dear Tiriel. I was talking to, as I promptly called out, "My gorgeous, sexy, wonderful, epitome-of-all-that-is-good-in-this-world car!"
My car was a bona-fide 1967 SS396 Chevelle. Still brilliant and beautiful in its mint Ermine White paint, and seemingly still in one piece, though both doors were open. I stumbled, suddenly, clutching a hand to my chest.
"Lady Ilmarë?"
There was someone's hand on my shoulder, but I couldn't breathe. It seemed that everyone else was aware of it too, although I don't see how they could have been, with my breath coming in ragged, short gasps. Ah-damned asthma!
"Lady Ilmarë! What ails you?"
I shoved whoever it was off of me and made my way to my car, all but throwing myself in through the passenger door to grab my ridiculously soft, fuzzy shark backpack. Unzipping it viciously, even as I saw little patches of black appear in front of me, I fumbled for my inhaler and, shaking it with the urgency that my inability to breathe in naturally caused, tossed the cap on the floor and took a puff. Damn, I had better remember that I haven't been magically turned into an elf like every one else apparently has and thus still can't run for shit.
"I'm fine-I'm fine."
My entourage, it seems, were concerned. Thandraug was looking incredulously at my car-or was it at the breathtaking splendor of Rivendell? Nah. It was totally my car. He blinked and then seemingly snapped out of it. A voice called me from…somewhere…
"Er, Ilmarë!"
I glanced up only to see Tiriel jogging in my direction, wearing some form of elven dress, essentially looking like she was an employee of the Renaissance Festival. Man, talk about assimilating fast. Or maybe it was just the fact that she's a sucker for soft fabrics and such a vivid, gorgeous shade of blue. No, it probably was assimilating. After all, some of these elves are pretty damn hot. She looked worried. Dumb-ass.
"I'm fine. My windpipe just kind of closed because I was running. No worries."
The look she gave me was full of disapproval, but I ignored it, because obviously no one knows better than I about the condition of my windpipe, and pocketed my inhaler. Did you know that Slytherin Robes have really deep pockets?
"Damn. I broke the Fourth Wall again, didn't I?"
I got very odd looks from those around me, and then realized that elves probably didn't have to worry about things like the Fourth Wall and stuff like that. Come to think of it, I don't know why I have to worry about that stuff. It's not like I'm some character in some punk-ass Fanfic. That would be ridiculous.
"Lady Ilmarë, perhaps it would be wiser for you to return to the Healing Wing and rest. You too, Thandraug. And if Lady Tiriel would join us, we can discuss your situation further."
I winced at the no nonsense, you-wouldn't-be-thinking-of-defying-me-would-you? facial expression that Elrond was sporting and nodded.
"Okie dokie. Sure. That's absolutely great. Peachy."
And, of course, my colloquial expressions were lost on my audience. Shame, that.
"I mean, yes, my Lord. T'is a wise suggestion indeed. I thank you for your generous consideration."
I nodded my head once, elegantly, inclining it just so. I could be gracious when necessary. It was kind of fun, anyway. Kind of. And so, Lord Elrond led us back to the room I had woken up in and we continued to explain our…predicament.
"And-and-and-"
I took a deep breath.
"I know everything that there is to know about Middle Earth and its past, present, and future. More or less. All the important stuff, at least."
And just then, before everyone could react to my outrageously unrealistic and literally UNBELIEVABLE claim, I took a deep breath and began to narrate a brief summary of the beginning of The Hobbit, dropping comments about certain elves' personal histories and whatnot in between sentences.
"So Gandalf went to Hobbiton and knocked on Bilbo's door and-Glorfi-Lord Glorfindel, you simply must regale me with tales of Gondolin, for I fear what I have read cannot possibly justice to the beauty of the city as hearing its sights described by one who had lived among them and beheld them with his own eyes-oh, yes, and then, like…"
Honestly, I was just digging myself into a deeper, deeper hole.
"And then they ran into the trolls, actually, Bilbo likes to refer to them in storytelling, later, at least, when he gets back from his little adventure and writes There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale by Bilbo Baggins, as 'three monstrous trolls!' and oh! Lord Elrond, I beg you to introduce me to Erestor. Er, Lord Erestor? Either way, I must make his acquaintance! Such a passionate scholar! I would love to converse with him, should he be amenable to the idea!"
Oh, and then they run into goblins in the caves. Quite frankly, I blame-OH! Lord Elrond, have you yet taken in little Strider? I mean Aragon? I mean, Elessar, I guess? And tell me, where is Lady Arwen? For I much desire to speak with her."
I couldn't help but snigger at my blatant Celeborn-mockery.
"I've always admired her-and I've already met your sons! Elladan and Elrohir are lovely, by the way. Very nice people. So is Lord Glorfindel. Oops, I meant Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir. I apologize. Any way, so when they climbed up the mountain and found the door that was only-"
I was startlingly detailed in my narration, although easily driven off topic. I didn't even get to finish telling them about how Bilbo was sent into the mountain alone because Elrond held up a hand to silence me.
"Lady Ilmarë, I believe you. I believe, though that it would be wiser for you to rest, as you are still unwell. I presume, based on the attitudes your companions have taken, that you shall negotiate with me on behalf of your friends and yourself. We shall speak more on the matter shortly. For now, rest."
Rest, my friends, I most certainly did.
The Road Goes Ever On and On…and Never Seems to END/End.
