Michael curled his lip at the squeaking in the corner; growing up in New York City had given him a level of the intelligence of rats and other vermin, and he had no need to fear them. Isabella, however, having read 1984 at perhaps a younger age than she should have, was sitting on the only wooden bench in the cell with her knees drawn tightly to her chest. She looked terrible – that once long dark hair was horribly tangled and her pale face was whiter than usual. She rested her forehead against her forearms and sighed to herself, those sharp, flinty blue eyes closing in a rare moment of vulnerability. Michael had to keep reminding himself that she was very, very young – fourteen was no age to be running around Middle Earth after Legolas and Aragorn, trying to write Mary Sues from stories. He picked at the filthy crust of black goo on the uneven floors, his booted feet scraping dully against the flagstones. The cells were damp and muddy from almost constant traffic, and the rustling and squeaking in the corner marked that the entire prison had an unhealthy infestation of rodents. The front of the cell had thick, rusty bars blocking the prisoners from the narrow hallway, keeping the entire room visible to the jailor's eye.
"This is ridiculous," Isabella said quietly. She peered at Michael through the soupy gloom, and he saw that her curtain of black hair had turned into a frizzy mess. "I can't believe we've been put in jail by a Sue. I'm so stupid. I should have seen this coming." She sounded for an instant like the girl she could have once been, and Michael felt sympathetic.
"C'mon, Isabella, we're not perfect," He said. She raised an eyebrow.
"Just because your intelligence level is considerably lower than my own, you can't make excuses for either yourself or me." Isabella said. Michael closed his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. You can't feel sorry for her for long, Michael thought to himself. Because as soon as she opens her mouth again, she says something snarky. Then she managed to shock him out of his skin. She sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and tilted her head back against the wall. "I'm sorry I snapped," She said softly. "I'm just ... everything's been happening so fast. I've never felt this ... childish." She looked at him, and he didn't quite know what to say. She waved a hand at him. "Never mind. I wouldn't expect you to understand, anyway."
In the next cell, Aragorn was looking at what had been Theoden-King, leader of Rohan. He looked the same, with a blonde beard and stocky build, but there was a dullness to his once-passionate blue eyes, a meekness to his fiery edge which had sharpened him into the hero he was. In his recently Awakened mind, Aragorn had a million conflicting thoughts and emotions coursing steadily through his veins. His duty to the throne, his love for Arwen, the delight he took in hunting in the woods, it was all tangling itself in his mind and soul, bonding the two of them irreparably. He heard Legolas still sobbing in the other corner, and Gimli was still grumbling to himself. Gandalf had a look in his eye like a glass-eyed lamb, and a very stupid grin as though he were a grandfatherly old man instead of a powerful Gray Wizard. Aragorn could see how foolish he had been, how ridiculous he had acted around Adavis and Ethwein and the rest. Oh, it was like a bath in a cool spring after a long day of marching, to look at things as they truly were, instead of how the Sues portrayed them. "Legolas, mellon, have faith," He said, calling across the small cell.
His answer was another tormented sob. "H-her eyes," Legolas sniffled. "Th-they were s-so...anguished. I would do anything, anything, to ease her pain..." He said, still crying. Aragorn rolled his eyes.
"Legolas!" He snapped, his answer a gruff growl. "Become yourself! Cease your thinking of this terrible creature – she is merely using her eyes as a ploy, a device to ensnare you! Think of what you hold dearest, mellon, do not think of her charms! It is a deception! She is stealing your own light to further her own existence, she is using you! Her poison will trick your mind into believing what is not real!"
Think of what you most hold dear.
Images of Mirkwood crowded into Legolas's mind – all of it's dark, green, overgrown glory. The long, webbed shadows, thick moss creeping over the ground, trailing vines hiding tiny nooks and crannies perfect for meditation and spying. Brooks fringed with green ferns, moss carpeting the grounds, wound through the woods, the cool, fresh spray slicking the gnarled tree roots, and he could almost taste the crisp breeze. His talan, an elegant structure built sturdily into three trees, their thick trunks supporting the thatched roof and carefully constructed walls. There was a little path, shrouded completely in branches and leaves, which twisted mysteriously through the woods and led to a small glade where deer slept, a path he took almost every day, to hunt or simply to watch the beautiful animals. He could see the small dents in the dark grass where the deer covered their young, could smell the musty, dark scent which clung to every surface. But he still heard Ethwein's tormented sighs, her anguished eyes haunting him with perfect clarity.
He thought of Madison.
She reminded him of Mirkwood – underestimated, shy, the beauty hidden behind her nervous laugh and thick, odd glasses. He thought of her brown-blonde hair, frizzy and curly, divided behind her into two neat sections. There was a scattering of freckles just beneath her eyes, only visible when she took off her glasses, and those pouting, rosebud lips which were so inviting and adorable. He drew up every memory he had of her, barricading Ethwein's eyes out of his head, replacing her instead with those silver-blue, smoky eyes, so often narrowed with worry and concern for others. That anxiousness that prevailed through everything, the desire to do things perfectly, he remembered everything, good and the bad. Her glittering lump of pyrite that hung on her leather strip around her neck, her tight, conformed stance which held herself close together. Her fear of horses, flying, heights, death, separation, blood, the ocean, and swimming. Her hidden strength, masked by all of her worries and fears and stresses. Her fear of life. Her fear of herself.
His eyes opened, and Aragorn saw the shift in his demeanor. "Are you ready to dethrone Ethwein, mellon?" Aragorn asked. Legolas met his gaze, and there was that peculiar triumphant fire which usually blazed them sparking in them now.
"Aye. I am."
The wound on her chest was deep. His shoes made sloppy, scuffling sounds as he slipped in the black pool of her crimson blood, adjusting his weight as he tried to staunch the flow of liquid. She was so very pale, the color of a snowbank, her silver-green eyes closed and her chest hitching only occasionally in breath. He had bunched up half of her tunic and pressed it against the wound, but it was now sopping wet and didn't seem to have any affect at all. "Daphne, love, don't you dare give up on me," He growled, turning the wad of cloth over to hold the slightly less stained side to her wound. She had been through so much, fought so bravely; she was his daughter and more, his consort, his friend, his man-at-arms. She admired him, he could see it in her eyes almost all of the time, and he wasn't going to sit here and let her die because of a foolish mistake on his part. He should have never told her, should have just activated the Manuscript himself! But then, she would be the one here, crying and trying to stop the bleeding, feeling utterly helpless as the blood kept pouring out. She coughed once, bringing a fine mist of red on her lips, and then opened her eyes. Was it possible she was smiling?
"...fine..." She whispered, less than a breath. "..really. Fine."
"You are anything but fine," Tolkien snapped, and a raspy intake of breath from Daphne's blood-spattered lips proved his statement. "Be still, love, don't you dare move. I need to see if there's anything I can use here to stop the blood." He looked at her, and felt a growing, roiling nausea in his gut as the bright red liquid seeped against the rag.
"Oi. Yeh need 'elp?"
Tolkien spun around, every nerve tense and frayed, probing the darkness viciously with his eyes, searching for the hidden voice. "Who's there?" He called out, her voice shaking slightly. "Show yourself!"
A portly dwarf, his brown beard a tangled mess of hair, peered out of the gloom back at him. "Yeh need 'elp?" He repeated, and Tolkien saw what an odd little fellow he was. He was no higher than the average dwarf, but his beard was far longer and his clothes were filthy rags, held together by dirt and luck. On his bag was a gigantic pack, a bundle of cloth tied over a bulging array of tools, weapons, and other flotsam and jetsam. Several dingy ropes held everything together, and it had been strapped onto his back. Held loosely in his fist was a pickaxe with dirt still on the blade, and his eyes glowed beadily in the darkness. When he grinned, it exposed his three teeth, one of which was plated with gold. "A dwarf," Tolkien said gratefully, "Yes, thank you! Please, can you help her?"
"Yer an Author, ain'tcha?" The dwarf grunted, cocking his head. Come to think of it, there was something distinctly off in his eyes. "I kin sense it. Yeh touched me book, dincha?" The dwarf growled, and shook his pickaxe threateningly. "I wuz told not tah let anybuddy but dah Creator touch that book, I wuz."
"My wife is the Creator, not me," Tolkien snapped. "And she needs help! Please!"
"She's yer wife?" The dwarf said curiously. "Daon't look like yer wife."
"No, she's my Apprentice," Tolkien snarled. "Now either help me or get out of here! Please!" He said, and the dwarf shrugged.
"Fair 'nuff. Give back th' book." The dwarf said.
"Help her first!" Tolkien insisted.
The dwarf spat on the ground. "Th' Toppers kin 'elp yeh. I'll 'elp yeh get to th' surface," He said, and then reached behind him, rummaging for a torch in his huge backpack. Tolkien heft Daphne in his arms – she was limp and unyielding in his grip, but Tolkien did his best to keep her still. She was lighter than he thought she would be, which was surprising – all of the walking and weeks of eating mangy rabbit had starved a few inches off her hips. The dwarf took his sweet old time in lighting a torch, and when Tolkien made a strangled noise of anticipation in his throat, the dwarf finally trudged off down the corridor. Tolkien followed hastily, hurrying after him, and the three of them began their trek.
He never knew how long they traveled – it felt like seconds, but it could have easily been ten minutes or more, because Daphne grew very still and her breath almost stopped completely. The path they were taking was sloping steeply upwards, and it was almost impossible to carry Daphne and walk at the same time, but he found some unknown well of strength he didn't know he had. A heady, pounding thump of adrenaline scorched through his system, and when they reached a large, oval opening, he stopped for breath, wondering why he was exhausted but strangely wired. The dwarf went over to one of the walls and slapped it three times with the butt of his torch. "An Author 'an 'is 'Prentice," the dwarf boomed. There was a horrible grating, crunching, grinding noise, and a slab of rock wall slid back slowly. Another dwarf, this one who appeared much younger and dressed much better, peered at them warily from the darkness.
"An Author?" The dwarf said, and then looked at Tolkien. "Valar! This isn't just an Author, it's The Author! By Aule's hammer, it's The Author! You crazy old fool!" The blonde-bearded dwarf chastised the doddering elder. "Come in! Valar! Come in, I say! Bring your wounded, quickly!"
Tolkien felt a crushing, dizzying sense of relief swamp his senses, and before he knew it, dwarves of all ages were crowding around him. A plump, good-looking female dwarf – who did not exactly have a beard, although she did have the chin for it – took Daphne from his arms. Another dwarf took his coat, and yet another began unlacing his boots. Before he knew what was fully happening, Tolkien stood in front of a large tribe of dwarves, his chest stained with Daphne's blood, and his young Apprentice nowhere to be found. "We are the Final House of Dwarves," A deep voice growled near his elbow. "I am Jormunt, the leader of this House. Please, Author, come take your rest."
"Just a moment," Tolkien said, his head beginning to pound due to the savage whirlwind of events which happened so damned quickly. "Just a bloody moment," He said again, and groped for his jacket.
The Manuscript was gone.
Madison almost always remembered her dreams. She liked them – her father used to tell her to write them down, so as to remember them with better clarity. That was how she first started writing, through dreams. Eventually, she polished and embellished them in small ways, fixing the strange elements and polishing off the odd edges. She would sit on her father's old lab chair, with his stained white lab coat around her shoulders, and read them off to him. She could see him now, his funny, frizzy brown-blonde hair sticking up, his glasses perched queerly on his nose, those electric blue eyes grinning at her. "That's good," he would say after a particularly long story/dream. "You ought to publish that." He made a point of making her remember them.
So it wasn't a mistake, then, that she had the most vivid dream of her life.
She had been sitting in her father's lab, as usual, the surroundings so familiar she saw every clear bottle and humming Bunsen Burner with perfect clarity. The metal stool beneath her squeaked, the ripped black vinyl covering tickled the inside of her knee. The lab always had a funny smell to it – something like singed hair and burned plastic, a combination which would have smelled acidic to anybody else, but it smelled like home to Madison. She hugged her knees, feeling five years old again, and wished her father were here to tell her what to do. She could still here his voice, that smooth, accented voice reading The Hobbit aloud to her – he was the one who had introduced her to all of Tolkien's works.
Suddenly, so suddenly that it would have alarmed her if she hadn't been in a dream, there was a woman in front of her. And it wasn't the tall, blonde, beautiful form of her mother – it was a short, plain looking woman with black hair neatly pinned up by her head. "Hello, Madison," She said, her voice tweaked with a British accent. "I needed to talk to you, and I can't reach you where I am right now."
"Where are you?" Madison asked, feeling only a dim, dull sort of surprise that she was talking to a random stranger. "And who are you?"
The woman cocked her head to one side, offering a little smile. "I am Edith Tolkien, the Creator of this story," She said, sounding a little sad. "And I only have a few minutes until I have to stop talking with you – it's taxing me enough just initiating this dream."
"But how can you initiate a dream?" Madison asked foggily.
"No more questions," Edith said, looking nervously around. "I don't have much time to spare, so I shall be brief. I am the Creator of this story because I gave Ronald – my husband – the idea for it. My version was shorter, with not enough plot to warrant a real story, but I was the one who started him down the track of Lord of the Rings. I suppose that most of this is my fault," She said, and looked around again. The room seemed the shimmer, almost imperceptibly. "Madison, you must remember this," She said hurriedly, licking her lips. "You must leave Isengard as quickly as possible. Daphne and Ronald have activated the first part of the Manuscript, and they don't know what they're doing. If they activate all three –" She broke off, and this time the room trembled, a vibration steadily growing. " – they mustn't activate all three! You must stop them from doing so!" Edith said, raising her voice over the sound of the humming.
"But why?" Madison asked, growing alarmed at the panicked tone in Edith's voice.
"Go to Gondor!" Edith commanded. The room rumbled. "Go to Gondor and destroy the second part of the Manuscript! You must do this, Madison! Your lives are already in grave danger!"
The whole room crumbled into nothingness and Madison heard a raw, chilling scream before she awoke. Her back arched, a gasp drawing past her teeth, and her eyes snapped open as her heartbeat went frantic. She yelped incoherently, and then settled when she felt a hand on her arm. "Relax," said a hoarse voice. Madison, through a curtain of unsettlement, saw a bedraggled looking Melody. Her upper lip had been split open across her teeth, a ribbon of blood trickling down her chin, and she moved stiffly, as if bruises were coating her body.
"We have to get out of here," Madison whimpered.
Melody grinned – it was a tight, satisfied grin, and she held up a long, rusty skeleton key. "I have a plan," She said with a smile. "But we have to move fast."
A/N: I wrote this entire chapter in half an hour. I feel as though I'm going to collapse any second. Our vacation was wonderful, saw some old friends, etc., but we just got back yesterday and my time zones haven't synced up yet. Enjoy. Comment. Whatever. Blah
