A Trifling Matter

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the plots, places, or characters associated with it. All are the creation of Mr. J.R.R. Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.

Three hundred lives of men he had lived, yet Gandalf the Grey was certain that he had never, in all his long years, come across a creature such as the girl who trailed nosily behind him. Brash, impetuous, and, thus far, rather uncouth, she was easily one of the most infuriating beings that he had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Granted, her displays of temper amused him greatly, but her hostility had resulted in more than a few bruises on behalf of both herself and his companions. However, even as the Wizard would be first to admit that she was likely the most insufferable woman to have ever graced his presence, he realized that there was something terribly amiss about the girl. From the very moment she had stumbled, quite literally, across his company's campsite, he had known she was an anomaly.

Indeed, everything about the girl was peculiar. From her clothing, to her accent, to her very demeanor—yes, especially her demeanor—it all spoke of a blatant oddness, one which was glaringly apparent now that she stood barely ten feet from him. She was no native of this land, of that he was certain. The question of her origin was one that he had begun to ponder nearly incessantly over the last few hours; ever since her collapse upon the ridge, in fact.

Most assuredly, the first glimpse of the great mountains in the early morning sunlight was breathtaking to any who had never ventured into their midst, but Gandalf would have never imagined that it would bring the girl to faint. Then again, it was one of several queer actions on her part. Of course, her collapse could have been perpetuated by exhaustion or perhaps even hunger, but the child had seemed relatively fine, if a little worn from their long march.

Her distress, he noted, had come about only when they reached the boundary of Hollin and, in the lull, the girl began to examine her surroundings. Gandalf recalled his brief recount of the region's history and her weak reply to his mention of land's title, as well as young Peregrin's remark regarding their company's direction. The Wizard had watched with increasing alarm as the child went deathly pale, her breath growing ragged as she turned slowly on her heel and gazed into the southern sky. An odd look, a fleeting combination of dread and acceptance, flitted across her face in the sparse seconds before she crumpled to the ground. In all, the incident was bizarre and, once he had assured himself that the child was merely unconscious rather than dead, he found himself given over to curiosity.

This girl will be the death of me, he concluded resignedly as he studied her disheveled form. Sympathy welled within him at the pathetic sight she made. Her tangled auburn hair was beginning to slip from the strange throng she used to draw it back from her face and the long tendrils fell carelessly into her dark eyes. A smudge of dirt made its way across the arch of her cheekbone and another marred her chin: Both were no doubt the result of her scuffles with Aragorn and the Elven Prince. Her clothing was rumpled and one of her odd tunic's long sleeves was ripped to reveal the torn flesh of her right forearm. Gandalf wondered if the girl had noticed its state of damage or the blood that now seeped slowly from the reopened wounds. The Wizard decided he would have Aragorn see to it once his business with the child was finished.

Overall, she was a dreadful mess. Nevertheless, she stood tall and he nearly chuckled outright when she arched an eyebrow upon noticing his scrutiny. "I'd ask what you were staring at, but I've already got a pretty good idea," she said with none of her former venom. If Gandalf hadn't known any better, he would have sworn she sounded faintly amused. Admittedly, it was a sardonic sort of amusement, but amusement all the same.

He regarded her a moment longer before deciding to take pity on the girl. "I see that you have finally conceded to accept our aid," he observed as he lowered himself to perch upon a large, flat stone on the stream's edge. He had led the girl to the edge of a brook where he and Aragorn had agreed to rest for the remainder of the day. He hoped the opportunity for privacy might loosen the child's tongue as, thus far, he knew next to nothing about her, save her aptitude to drive the normally poised Thranduilion to the brink of his composure. He watched her as she turned away from him and crouched down by the water's edge.

She remained as such for a few short minutes, examining her reflection in the clear water, before rising to her full height once more and offering him a very unladylike snort. "Well, considering that I really didn't have much of a choice, I figured it was the best course of action." She began to cross her arms in what Gandalf recognized as a defensive gesture, but she immediately hissed in pain when she inadvertently brushed a hand against the abused skin above her wrist.

"That wound will need tending soon," he pointed out while inclining his head towards her. "I will have Aragorn see to it and any other abrasions when we return. He is skilled in healing."

"Aragorn has done enough for me," the girl instantly refuted. "I can take care of it myself." Frowning, she brought her hands to her hips. "Somehow, though, I doubt that was what you wanted to talk to me about. What is it, Gandalf?"

Smart girl, he concluded with no small amount of surprise. And direct as well. Leaning forward, the Wizard brought his elbows to rest on his knees and, steepling his fingers, studied her through dark eyes. "Tell me, child," he began slowly, "what is your name?"

With her previous desire to keep her identity withheld in mind, he half-expected her to deny him yet again, so he was rather startled when she smirked and replied, "I suppose it's only fair that I tell you, since you were so gracious in providing yours." There was mordant tone to her voice that Gandalf found he cared little for, but he chose to overlook it when she went on, "My name is Kelly Day."

"And your age?"

"Twenty-one-twenty-two in a few weeks, though I fail to see how my age is relevant to this conversation," she replied.

Lifting a hand, the Wizard made a placating gesture. "I was merely curious." At this, the girl "hmphed" and pursed her lips, but bit back her retort. "Now, your father's name?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?" she asked, allowing her arms to fall slack at her sides. Gandalf arched an eyebrow of his own to prod her into an answer. She sighed with a roll of her eyes. "If you must know, his name is Matthew." Then, with a significant amount of snark, she added, "Would you like his age and occupation as well?"

Despite the knowledge that the chit was merely needling him, the Wizard nodded. "If you please."

Her sarcasm having been disregarded, the girl scowled. "He's fifty-two and he's an architect."

"Architect?" the Wizard echoed curiously and he saw the girl stiffen. Odd, he mused. Had he not been watching her so closely, he would have never picked up on the movement. His interest piqued.

Seeming to silently reprimand herself, she muttered a curse before turning a pair of wary brown eyes to gaze at him. "Ah…um…yeah, you know," she began after a brief hesitation and a flippant motion of her hand, "someone who designs buildings and…stuff."

"I am afraid that I am not familiar with the term," he admitted and, unlinking his fingers, he inquired, "Structures, you say? He is a carpenter of sorts, then?"

"Ah…not really," she denied, reluctance still evident in her voice. "Although I do think the word 'architect' means 'master builder' or something to that effect. No, my father just makes up the designs for structures and oversees their construction. He doesn't actually build anything." Despite her obvious distaste for the turn their conversation had taken, another smirk threatened to cross her lips. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd be afraid if he ever tried-to build something, that is. He's the most accident prone man I've ever met."

Gandalf frowned as he mulled over this new bit of information. It certainly didn't help him decipher anything more about the girl. He had hoped inquiring after her father and family might reveal something as to the girl's identity as well as her place, position, and perhaps even how she had come to be in their midst. Instead, her explanation simply left him as baffled as ever, seeing that, while he was aware of individuals who held such positions (especially in the kingdoms of Men), he had never before heard the term "architect." To his knowledge, those who planned the structure most often also participated in the actual construction as well. Or so was the way of Elves and Men in this land, though those of nobility sometimes oversaw the building of their own commissioned work. Hence, the idea of an "architect" was relatively foreign to Gandalf's mind.

"Is he a man of consequence in your homeland?" he pressed on after a moment of contemplation.

He watched the girl as she tilted her head slightly to the side. She appeared genuinely confused. "What'd you mean 'a man of consequence'?" she repeated slowly.

"What is his place? Is he a noble, a man of wealth?" He gestured towards her garments, causing the girl to peer down at herself and then back at him in question. "It is easy to see that you are certainly no peasant. The cloth you wear speaks of affluence as do the jewels in your ears, so surely your family is of some prominence."

She looked thoughtful. "Well, I guess that explains the 'my lady' business." Shrugging, she went on, "I suppose by your standards, my family would be considered pretty well off, but we're not nobility or anything. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway. If we are, it was way back in the line, so it doesn't matter anymore."

"So you are, indeed, a commoner?"

"Um…yeah, I guess I am."

"Hn."

They lapsed into silence as the Wizard mulled over his next line of inquiries. Really, dealing with this girl was like trying to wring water from a stone; it yielded little in the way of substance and what little information she provided served more to baffle him than anything else. Hitherto, he had learned only her name, her father's trade, and the fact that, to her understanding, her family was of common stock. She offered no more on the subject of herself. Whether from a lack of trust in him or natural wariness, the Wizard did not know, but he found himself growing rather impatient with her reticence. So he pressed on, though this time, he chose to get directly to the heart of the matter.

"So tell me, my girl," he began, "how it is that you came to be so far out into the Wild, alone, and lacking in both supply and means of protection?"

Truthfully, he expected some sort of snappish retort or perhaps even no replay at all, so he was thoroughly surprised when she returned from the stream's edge and proceeded to settle down on a stone across from him. Reaching up, she released her hair from its bind and, running her fingers through the coppery strands, she fixed him with a calculating stare. After a several seconds of gazing unblinkingly at him, she turned her face away to gaze across the stream and gifted him with a reply that left him balking.

"Honestly, Gandalf, your guess is a good as mine."

For a long moment, he couldn't bring himself to speak and he merely gaped at the girl as she twirled the throng from her hair between her fingers. Perhaps he was simply frustrated with the direction of their exchange and the lack of knowledge it had provided, but her nonchalant manner coupled with her impertinent response grated on his nerves.

"This is not a matter of jest, child," he said sternly. "I would have a truthful answer when I ask you a question."

Flashing brown eyes immediately snapped up to meet his, and he was more than a little unnerved by the incredulity he saw in their dark depths. There was no lie in the child's eyes. "I do not 'jest,' Gandalf."

And it was with this comment that Gandalf found himself, once more, questioning the girl's sanity. Unfortunately, the dead air that ensued in the wake of her proclamation served merely to put the girl back on edge and, before he could even begin to formulate a proper response, she was on her feet. Judging by the expression on her face, he came to the grim realization that he should prepare himself for the coming tirade. Indeed, he fully expected to witness yet another round of the girl's fiery temper.

Therefore, it came as quite the shock when she seemed to swallow her words and, casting him an exasperated sort of look, she shook her head, saying, "You know, frankly, I don't care if you believe me or not. It's not my problem and, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation's over." Then, with an irritable toss of her auburn mane, she spun on her heel and began to trudge back up the bank towards their meager camp.

Now, the Wizard knew, without a doubt, that to allow her to return to his companions in such a state of smoldering ire would not bode well—for himself or his unsuspecting company. Yes, especially his unsuspecting company, considering that he was the one who had worked her into said state of ire. They would have no idea just how unstable she was until one of them did or said something to set her off. While she appeared to have controlled her temper for the time being, he was more than certain it would eventually erupt and result in a disaster of some sort. And so, it was with the possibility of such a catastrophe planted clearly in his mind that Gandalf sprang to his feet with a grace that belied his aged body and, in a few steady strides, captured the girl's slender wrist in his own gnarled fingers.

The effect was instantaneous.

She whipped around, her lips parting to give him a verbal bashing—no doubt-just as her free hand slammed down atop his own in an attempt to pry the appendage free. Her grip was strong, he noted judiciously; tight, though not enough to be painful, and, yet, it was obvious that she was warning him to release her. Of course, he had absolutely no intention of doing so—or, at least, not until she calmed enough to warrant it.

"Be still," he ordered firmly.

"Let me go." Her demand was nothing more than a vehement hiss, accompanied by a ferocious tug and the bite of fingernails against his skin, and Gandalf very nearly complied. After all, the sensation wasn't exactly pleasant.

"Peace, child: You are far too swift to anger," the Wizard responded as he tightened his hold to still her struggles.

A curse met his efforts, even as she quieted in his grasp. Turning furious brown orbs on him, she said flatly, "That wasn't a request, Gandalf."

"Have you calmed yourself sufficiently so that we may continue our conversation?" he asked shortly, annoyance beginning to bubble in his veins. I'm far too old for this sort of nonsense.

"Don't you mean 'interrogation?'" she spat in retaliation and gave another mighty yank of her arm.

Much to the Wizard's astonishment, she tore free. Unfortunately for the girl, the momentum of the action caused her to overbalance and she would have ended up in an ungainly heap on the ground had it not been for the fact that Gandalf lurched forward and seized her by the shoulders before she managed to do so. His intention had been to steady her and prevent further injury to her person, seeing as she was already rather bedraggled and looked quite like something the cat had dragged onto the back stoop. However, just as with many other things concerning this woman child, his rescue did not go entirely as planned. While, he did, in fact, spare her what would have surely been a nasty tumble into the streambed, he found the most unnerving feeling wash over him as he dragged her back to her feet.

In hindsight, he realized that he should have released her the second she regained her feet. He knew she didn't take well to physical contact of any kind-let alone the kind of manhandling to which he had just resorted—and, yet, he could not. Had he followed that particular impulse, the girl would have slipped to her knees as her legs seemed no longer able to support her weight. She had gone terribly still, her eyes large and strangely glassy, and he watched as she raised both hands, her fingertips coming to rest lightly on his wrists.

A gasp—from his own lips, he realized faintly—hissed through the air, followed by a sharp cry from the girl, and then darkness.

How long it lasted, he had no idea, nor was he precisely aware of the moment he had closed his eyes, and he only returned to awareness when the girl abruptly ripped away from him with a force violent enough to send her sprawling. She landed with a muffled "oomph" and merely lay there with her eyes squeezed shut while she gasped for breath.

The Wizard quickly discovered he was in no better condition. His head suddenly ached terribly and he found himself stumbling over to one of the river stones and easing his weary frame down onto its smooth surface. He wondered briefly on this newfound fatigue, but he had no more answer for it than for the ragged question that escaped the girl's lips.

"What the Hell just happened?" she asked breathlessly.

"I do not know," came his strained reply.

By the Valar, his head ached. Resting his elbows on his knees, Gandalf dropped his forehead to rest in his hands as he pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples in an attempt to ease the dull throb that had taken up residence. It was an queer sort of pain, one that made him feel as if he'd had too little sleep or perhaps a bit too much wine. His mind was muddled, fuzzy about the edges, and felt entirely too full: He could hardly begin to describe the sensation. Something was pricking at the edge of his senses, in the recesses of his psyche; it felt as though he was forgetting something important.

Sighing, the old man closed his eyes. The pricking was growing stronger and it tugged at him now, incessant and demanding. Faint whispers brushed hesitantly against his ears as the impression of a memory long buried teased him. Fleeting flashes of color, light, and form danced across his mind's eye and the Wizard found himself growing swiftly irritated at his lack of recollection. Furrowing his brow, he concentrated on dredging up whatever reminiscences his mind was trying so desperately to summon.

A fierce pain suddenly flared within the confines of his skull and then everything came into startlingly clear focus.

Massive structures built of steel and glass; moving pictures; great, silver birds in the sky; perfect, glossy portraits of one's countenance; strange quills without ink wells; torches bright but without flame…

They were many and brief, these visions, lasting mere seconds before bleeding into the next, and Gandalf found himself bombarded with a wealth of knowledge that was not his own. They were incredible, these things, these "skyscrapers," "movies," "airplanes," "photographs," "ink pens," and "flashlights." Such amazing creations, they seemed, to his mind, and yet he knew they were not. They were commonplace; normal, everyday objects with little importance in the overall scheme of things.

There were other images, however, much more particular and that left a much stronger imprint after their passing. They seemed almost…intimate.

A middle-aged man with peppered hair and warm, dark eyes, his arm slung around the slender shoulders of auburn-haired woman; a spacious bedchamber swathed in jades and blues; a little, white dog curled up on a tasseled cushion; a porcelain- faced doll, clad in bright silks; a bespectacled old man seated in a favored chair, a pipe clutched in one hand, a paper in the other; an upturned book, its pages fluttering in the breeze…

Her memories, the Wizard realized suddenly, somewhere in the back of his mind. These are the girl's memories. These are her friends, her family; the things she holds most dear.

He could feel her attachment to them as well as if it were his own, and Gandalf was both startled and unnerved by the revelation, uncomfortable in the fact that he had intruded upon something that should have been sacred. He knew that he should pull away, that he should close himself completely to that which he should have never been privy, yet he could not. He was helpless and bound to the course of her reminiscences.

A boy, sandy-haired and hazel-eyed, his lean frame slouched against the trunk of a massive oak as a roguish grin pulled at his lips; a thin, willowy girl, clad in light brown and yellow, her hand raised in greeting while she stood at the edge of a well-beaten forest path; shadows cast by early morning sunlight spilling though a thick canopy of leaves… A feeling of unease began to stir in his gut. There was a slight pause, a hitch in his breath.

And then he saw himself, standing, stern-faced and unreadable, alongside the irate Elven Prince.

Fear swept over him, a terror unlike anything he had ever before known and, after one disorienting moment, he realized what he felt was the same as experienced by the girl while she stared down the shaft of Thranduilion's arrow. He felt her shock, her skepticism, and, finally, her anger upon his introduction and that of his companions, followed by her resolve to not go down without a fight. There was her outrage at having been struck unconscious and, subsequently, awakening on the cold ground, and her panic at having discovered the ropes about her wrists. Following was fury at Legolas as he bound her ankles, then curiosity of Aragorn's character while she studied him, and pleasure in taunting the son of Gloin as well as astonishment upon encountering the Hobbits for the very first time.

Her emotions ebbed and flowed like the tides. Ire, terror, anxiety, dread, guilt, sorrow, and acceptance: They slid swiftly and seamlessly into the one another in the same manner of the visions they accompanied, and Gandalf felt himself nearly overwhelmed by their intensity. The pounding in his head increased tenfold and his skull felt very much like it might split in two. And, yet, through the agony and absolute confusion, the Wizard came to one single, startlingly clear conclusion.

The girl was not of this world.

"Gandalf?" Her voice seemed distant, as though it came from afar, and Gandalf forced himself to focus on it over the pulse of blood at his temples. "Gandalf? Are you alright?" Light footsteps approached before a small hand hesitantly brushed his shoulder.

With the touch, the surge receded just as swiftly as it began and the pain diminished to a dull thrum. The images grew faded and gray, slowed, and began to taper off as any remaining sentiment drained away like water through a sieve. He felt strangely hollow in its absence, but much more like himself.

"Gandalf?" Again, she tried to gain his attention, and he heard the smallest hint of panic begin to seep into her tone as the hand on his shoulder tightened. "Gandalf, answer me!" Lifting his head from its place in his hands, he peered unyieldingly into the girl's worried eyes.

"You know our fates."

The words were quiet, spoken more to himself than to the girl, but she heard them nonetheless, and the hand on his shoulder ripped away as though it had been burned.

Rising slowly, he turned to face her, only to find her staring at him in bewilderment. "You know our fates and the fate of this world-the outcome of this quest. You know what will come to pass." The girl's slackened jaw snapped shut with an audible "clack" as she quickly backed away and refused to meet his searching gaze, but her reaction merely confirmed his suspicions. And, yet, he was at a loss. How could this girl—this mere child—know such things? For a split second, he entertained the thought that she was some type of Seer, possessed of some great foresight. The notion, however, was quickly dismissed. His encounters with such beings relayed that their visions of the future were, at best, questionable and never were they Seen with such clarity. There was little doubt; this girl knew what would come to pass.

"How?" he murmured. "How is it that you possess such knowledge?" He took a step forward and she one back, stumbling blindly in her desire to keep as much distance between them as possible. The action sparked his anger. "Speak, girl. Tell me how you came to know such things."

There were a few more moments of silence during which he stared intently at the female before him and she herself stared at anything save him. Finally, a sigh escaped her lips and she, at last, turned her gaze towards him once more. "I doubt you'd believe me even if I told you, Gandalf," she replied shortly. "It's a long story, one that I doubt you want to hear and, to tell you the truth, I really don't want to tell it."

"Tell me, child. I shall not ask you again."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "If I recall correctly, you didn't ask me the first time. Not to mention the fact that I fail to see how I came about knowing what I may or may not know is any of your business."

"Do not test me, girl. There is far too much at stake in this venture: The fate of this land and its peoples rests on our success." He scowled and approached her once more, vaguely surprised when she did not attempt to escape and, instead, brought her hands to rest on her hips as though daring him to continue. And continue he did. "Yet you know this, do you not? You realize what will come to pass should we fail, should the Shadow overcome us."

"And if I do?" she returned hotly. "What would you have me do, Gandalf?"

"You will tell me what you know of us and how you came to possess such knowledge," was his demand. "And you will tell me how you came to be here, in this world, when it is apparent that it is not your own."

Her bark of laughter was sharp and sudden as she turned her back to him and allowed her arms to fall to her sides. For a few long moments, she made no move to comply with his command and merely stood, her head tilted back as she stared at the early afternoon sky. Gandalf studied her closely, trying to determine exactly what she would do, though he understood that, if anything, the girl was stubborn and she would allow no other to discern her thoughts should she choose to keep them hidden.

A heavy breath rushed from her lips just before she sank to the ground where she stood and dropped her forehead into her hands. "You know I didn't ask for this, right?" Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked up at him. "I have absolutely no desire to be here and sure as Hell no desire to have this conversation with you."

Gandalf snorted. "I am well aware your feelings concerning me and mine, child. I simply wish to determine whether or not you will pose a threat to my company and its course."

"A threat?" she laughed. "Gandalf, you said it yourself. I'm alone, weaponless, without protection. What on earth could I possibly do to harm you?

"Some need neither blade nor bow to bring harm," the Wizard answered shrewdly. "Many servants of the Enemy employ only a clever mind and a silvered tongue to achieve their mischief. And you, I believe, possess both."

The girl—Kelly offered a derisive snort of her own before saying with dripping sarcasm, "Of course. If you must know, I've perfected the fine art of being a complete smart ass." She chuckled softly then, and offered him a lopsided grin. "I assure you, I'm harmless."

Gandalf watched her a moment longer, staring into eyes that were amused, yet shuddered. He could see nothing of her thoughts. "Be that as it may, I will not risk the security of my party. As I have said before, there is far too much at risk," he stated with a frown. "You must tell me everything."

There was another heavy sigh. "Why won't you just let it alone?" She shook her head, her ruddy bangs falling over her eyes. "After all, everyone has their secrets, don't they, Gandalf?" He caught the slightest hint of a smirk as she tilted her head to the side in mild curiosity. "Or perhaps I should say Olorin?" The Wizard balked and the smirk widened. "Well, that is your name, isn't it?"

Finding the voice that had been temporarily lost to him, Gandalf swallowed thickly and said, "It has been many years since I last bore that title."

The girl agreed with the inclination of her head. "Yes. Not since you left the ancient West, if I recall correctly." The smirk softened into a smile as she continued, "'Olorin, sent by the Lords of the West to guard the Lands of the East.'" She offered him a helpless shrug. "You are of the Maiar: a keeper of the Sacred Fire, a servant of the Valar."

Gandalf was torn somewhere among disbelief, horror, and something akin to nostalgia. "That knowledge is privy only to a select few." He knew not what else to say. Once again, she had thrown him for a loop.

"And I'm not one of them," she replied. "I know that." Her strange smile faded and she said nothing more until, after a few long moments of silence, she complied, "I'll tell you what you want to know, but only on one condition."

Still reeling at the extent of her awareness of their world, he scowled. "You are hardly in a position to demand concessions, child."

"I'm aware of that, but humor me, please," the girl entreated. "Just this once, Gandalf. I'm going to have enough trouble explaining things as it is."

"Oh, very well," the Wizard conceded. "I will hear your terms."

Kelly nodded as an uncomfortable look crossed her features. "All I ask is that you hear me out. Just don't…wig out or anything."

"'Wig out'?" he echoed curiously, tilting his head slightly to the side. Yet another of the girl's bizarre phrases, he gathered, as he heard her wry laugh.

"Never mind," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "I just don't want you to get upset. I have to admit that what I'm about to tell you will probably sound a bit far-fetched," the corner of her lips quirked into that same mocking smile from before as she went on, "if not completely insane. I just wanted to warn you."

Gandalf studied her expression keenly. Shoulders stiff and fingers knotted in her lap, she seemed nervous, if not downright fearful of his reaction. He dismissed the thought after a few brief moments and attributed her edginess to her somewhat capricious personality. In the end, he inclined his head to her and agreed with her request. "Very well, child, your counsel shall be heeded."

With his acquiescence, the girl's shoulders appeared to lose some of their tension and she released a heavy breath before she, once again, ran her fingers through her wild hair in what the Wizard assumed was an attempt to settle her nerves. Then, lifting her head, she met his gaze full-on for the first time since their "conversation" had begun. Deep blue clashed with inky brown, and, after a long stretch in which the pair simply stared at one another, the girl looked away and began to speak.

"I'm honestly not sure where to start, Gandalf. There's a lot to explain," she started, much more calmly than the Wizard thought her capable. In fact, she seemed so calm that it was almost worrisome. She was so…spirited, so fiery that for her to act otherwise was cause enough for concern on his behalf.

"At this point, the beginning seems most prudent," he prodded as he watched her study the dirty skin of her palms.

"The beginning, huh?" she reiterated with another wry pull of her lips. "I'm not even sure where the 'beginning' begins, let alone how to explain it." At his deepening scowl, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look, I know you think I'm just being stubborn and I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my reservations. It's not everyday that I encounter…people like you."

"What do you mean 'people like me'?" the Wizard questioned slowly.

Dark eyes, shuddered and solemn, closed as the girl heaved another sigh and slouched gracelessly. "People like you—Wizards, Elves, Hobbits—"she answered haltingly, as if choosing her words carefully. Frowning, she lowered her gaze. "I think you've already realized that I'm not from around here. In fact, that's probably the understatement of the century." She reached up to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. In doing so, she drew his attention once more to the strange gems she wore, pierced into her flesh. Gandalf had heard of men from distant lands—from Harad and the Far East—doing much the same, though their adornments were never so refined. "Where I'm from, things are…different."

"So I have gathered," he replied dryly.

She slated him a sharp look through thick lashes, but continued as though he had never spoken, "Very different." The words were murmured and, for a moment, the girl seemed to drift off, her thoughts straying back to the world of her birth. Coming back to herself abruptly, she rose suddenly and began to pace. She was all nervous energy now. "I'm terrified, you know. Completely and utterly scared out my wits," she stated baldly. "I don't know how any of this happened, so I can't really tell you how I came to be here because I don't know myself. And that thought absolutely petrifies me."

Mildly unnerved by the sudden shift in the girl's demeanor, Gandalf lifted a hand and said, "Calm yourself, child. You have nothing to fear from me, or my companions, unless you prove a danger to us."

"I will not calm myself!" she exploded as she rounded on him. "Don't you see? I know too much, Gandalf, too much about this world. You said it yourself; I know your fates. I know what will become of each and every one of you. I can't help but be a danger to you." Breathing heavily, she sank back to her knees, kneeling beside the cool, swirling water of the brook. She looked up at him pleadingly. "I'm lost in a world that shouldn't even exist and my very presence could change the fate of you all."

"You understand the need for caution then," replied Gandalf sternly. "However, I must inquire of exactly how much you do know? And how you came by such knowledge?"

"Everything. I know everything. I know who you really are and where you come from. I know about Aragorn and his being the heir of Isildur. I know about the One and your quest. I know virtually everything about everyone in the Fellowship," she explained. "I know because I've heard it all before-because where I come from, all of this," here she raised her arm to gesture to the surrounding trees and the world beyond, "is nothing more than a fairytale." She laughed then, a low, slightly unsettling, little chuckle that made a chill run down the Wizard's spine. "Or, at least, I thought it was. Now, I'm not so sure."

"A fairytale we are not, my girl, though I now understand the reason for your wariness," the Wizard answered sharply, but, upon seeing the anxious expression on the child's face, he softened his tone. "You fear what is come."

"I'd be stupid not to," she sniped back and then exhaled sharply through her nose, checking her temper. "If you truly are who you say you are, then I'm a very real danger to you, Gandalf, and to Frodo." His expression of shock at her use of the Ringbearer's name made the girl grin crookedly; she had never been formally introduced to the dark-haired Hobbit. "Oh, yes, I know his name, just as I know yours. Frodo Baggins of the Shire—Bag End, to be precise. He is the cousin of Bilbo Baggins, who found the Ring. Bilbo took it from the creature Gollum. Lord Elrond of Rivendell charged Frodo with bearing the Ring back to Mordor, to destroy it." Seeing the Wizards eyebrows arch to nearly his hairline, she paused and inquired coolly, "Shall I continue?"

Silence reigned for several seconds before the Wizard shook off his bewilderment. "I know not how you know such things, but you should not speak so freely of them," he said grimly, his suspicions of her origins thoroughly confirmed by her words. "You are perhaps not of this world, but it seems that you are now part of it and subject to what ever evil would befall it should your careless words be overheard. Take heed of what you speak and to whom." Picking up his staff and bedraggled blue hat from the ground beside his resting place, the Wizard stood. It was time to end this discussion and return to their companions; he now had much to consider. "In fact, perhaps it would be best if you did not speak of anything we have discussed here today."

The girl frowned deeply. "And why is that?"

"As you and I agree, the knowledge you possess is dangerous. It is best if it remains hidden for as long as possible. Speak not of it to anyone, save me," he answered, "and then only in the direst need."

"And the others? What if they ask about me? Or where I'm from?" she pressed. "In fact, Aragorn already has. He knows something is off about me."

The Wizard shook his head. "Leave the others to me. They shall heed my warnings not to question you."

"What about the Quest then? What should I do?"

"Nothing."

"What?" The girl fairly shrieked.

"Do not interfere. You must allow the events to come to play out as they will."

"But I-if anything happens to any of you because of something I did or said—Gandalf, I could change the entire course of the future if I sneeze at the wrong time. I can't just stand by and do nothing."

"You can and you will," was the simple response. "You must not interfere with the chosen course of things. You must be careful of what you say and do." The girl saw the logic in his words, yet she obviously chafed against it.

Still frowning darkly, she nodded her assent with a mumbled, "fine."

Taking his staff in one hand, the Wizard gestured towards the path. "That's settled then. Come. Let us return to camp."

"Um…actually," the girl shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably and looked longingly toward the water of the stream, "would you mind terribly if I stayed here and…umm…washed up a bit? I'm kind of grubby."

The Wizard glanced down at the girl's torn and soiled clothing. Yes, perhaps that would be prudent. She was in a sad state as she was and her wounds stood the chance of becoming infected if they were not seen to soon.

"Very well," he conceded and received what he realized was likely the first true smile to cross the girl's face since he had first encountered her. "Be quick about it. I shall send someone to tend to your wounds." And, with that, Gandalf donned his tattered hat, turned on his heel, and moved up the embankment towards their camp, his mind whirring with the revelations his conversation with Kelly Day had wrought.

Revised: 3/21/2012