A/N: So it's been awhile. Real life got real hectic; new city, new job, starting university etc... If you're still reading this, I will continue to update, just don't expect daily uploads. That said, thank you for your patience and cheers to everyone who's reviewed.
Chapter Seven
Concerning Wizards and Hobbits
The ball of biotic destruction harmlessly dissipated barely a hair's breadth from the wizard's face, succeeding in only ruffling his grey beard.
Gandalf merely arched an eyebrow and took another puff from his pipe, calmly blowing out the smoke as he examined Abigail with a new-found interest.
Shepard, for her part, lowered her hand before crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips.
"Fascinating," Gandalf said. "Such remarkable abilities. I can quite confidently say that I have never seen anything quite like that before."
Abigail snorted. "You wouldn't have."
Gandalf tilted his head. "Some would say that your actions are … overly aggressive."
"Had to make sure," Abigail said, still not moving from her spot. "You just popped out of nowhere. Could have been a hologram, or another trick." Abigail hesitated. "Sorry, by the way," she added, sounding completely unapologetic.
"I've had worse first meetings," Gandalf said with a small chuckle.
"So," Abigail said, moving over to sit by the bed, tense and mindful that she was still without armour. "Wizard, huh?"
Gandalf inclined his head. "Istari, yes. And you?"
Abigail paused, considering how much she should tell him. He was powerful, unfazed about her abilities and didn't even flinch at the warp she threw at him. A modicum of respect edged into her view of this old man.
"Shepard," she eventually said. "The name's Shepard."
"Well met, Lady Shepard," Gandalf said. "How does your injury fare? A morgul blade is not something to be trifled with."
Abigail winced, almost subconsciously feeling the scar on her stomach. That fucker had hurt.
"I'll live."
"You very nearly didn't," Gandalf said. "Only the skills of Lord Elrond prevented your fall into darkness."
"Darkness?"
Gandalf nodded gravely. "A morgul blade contains evil magics; it twists the mind, tries to burrow into your soul. If it succeeds, you become a wraith, neither living nor dead. Something… unnatural and bent to Sauron's will."
"Indoctrination," Abigail muttered darkly. Then she paused. "Sauron?"
"A being of great evil," Gandalf said. "He dwells in the shadowed lands of Mordor. He is the master of the Nazgul – the wraiths that you encountered."
Fragments of dreams returned to Abigail, snapshots of reapers and husks, interspaced with flames and a deep, menacing voice. "He wouldn't happen to have a single flaming eye?" she asked Gandalf.
The wizard paused, narrowing his eyes. "You have seen him."
Abigail shrugged. "He may have tried to take over my head. Tried being the operative word there."
"And you resisted?" Gandalf blew another puff of smoke through his pipe. "No mean feat. You must possess remarkable strength of will."
"Strength of will – stubborn hardass – pretty much the same thing for me."
Gandalf chuckled. "As entertaining this conversation has been, I think it is time to leave you be. You are free to wander around these halls as you wish – although I would advise a more …diplomatic … greeting when meeting the rest of inhabitants of Imladris." He quirked a meaningful eyebrow at her.
Abigail shrugged, grinning sheepishly. Gandalf tipped his pipe towards her in farewell then strode out the door of her room.
Now alone, Abigail lay back down on the bed and rubbed her tired eyes.
"Well, Shep old girl – you're in it now," she muttered.
Sighing deeply, she rose to her feet, deciding that some exploration was in order to get her bearings. Plus, she wanted to find this 'Elrond' person and thank him for healing her. It was just good manners after all. Not that she was exactly a poster girl for politeness. Another priority was finding where her pistol and armour were – frankly, she felt naked without it. Although that could also have been because of the ridiculously fluttery clothes she was wearing.
She walked out of her room and found herself on a wide, open corridor. Abigail glanced to her left and her mouth dropped open. Stretching across the entire landscape was a beautiful series of waterfalls. Tumbling down from the lip of the valley, the crystal clear water gurgled and splashed, all meeting at a river, which wound through the buildings she was in.
Speaking of the buildings, the graceful, flowing lines of the supports and the seamless construction of everything looked almost organic. If she didn't know any better, she would have said that it looked like it had been grown like that naturally.
"May I help you, Lady Shepard?" said a quiet, musical voice to her side. Abigail turned to find a tall, graceful woman with a mane of raven hair smiling at her
– churning water – pounding hoof beats – jagged, metal gauntlets reaching out – unholy pain as her mind was laid bare – whispered words in another language, "Noro lim, Asfaloth. Noro lim!" –
Abigail jerked back. "You were the woman – the woman from the river."
The woman inclined her head slightly, and in doing so, revealed the pointed tips of her ears. Elf. She was an elf.
"You saved me," Abigail said softly. "Thank you."
The elf smiled. "You did us great service when you killed that Nazgul – the ringwraith."
"I take it that's not a common occurrence?"
"They are supposed to be nigh un-killable," the elf woman said.
Abigail snorted. "Nothing's un-killable. You just have to try hard enough."
The elf's lips twitched up into a grin. "So it would seem."
"By the way," Abigail said. "I didn't catch your name."
"Arwen," the elf replied softly. "Arwen Undómiel."
As Arwen led her on an informal tour of Rivendell, Abigail couldn't help but notice how peaceful it was. It had been so long since she had experienced this much of it. Even when on the Normandy in-between missions, there had been that tense undercurrent, that anticipation that things were finally going to go pear shaped and end up with all of them dead. Doubly so for the reaper war.
The sense of quiet calm that pervaded the entire valley … it was nice. Eerie, but nice.
Arwen was mostly quiet, save for occasionally pointing out a landmark, or answering one of Abigail's questions about life in Rivendell. Eventually, the elf led her towards the sound of clanging. Rounding the corner, they came to a large, open aired pavilion, built (grown?) in the same organic way as most of the other buildings. Laid out underneath were anvils, stone workbenches and a dozen other pieces of blacksmith machinery, along with an assortment of worn tools. In the center sat a massive forge, shaped like a dome, made of smooth stone and brick, its heart glowing a fiery red.
Arwen raised a hand and greeted the elven man hammering. He paused and gently lowered his hammer, his movements precise and graceful, at odds with the muscular swell of his arms.
"This is Hemeldir, our master blacksmith," Arwen said. "He has been repairing your armour – although as I hear, he has had more trouble with your weapons."
Abigail quirked her lips. "Yeah – it's not exactly something that you … come across around these parts."
"Indeed," Hemeldir said, the elf coming forward to meet them both. "If you will follow me, I have your armour." He motioned towards the pavilion. "It was surprisingly well made," he said as they walked, "– crude compared to elvish smithing standards, but for work of men, a fine piece."
In the forges, Abigail found her leather armour and bodysuit laying neatly folded in one of the workbenches, her shield belt and emitter on top. At first, it looked identical to how it was when she first received it – but on closer inspection, she found the hard leather slightly thicker, especially around the abdomen where the nazgul's blade had punctured. To her surprise, the edges of the leather seemed to be stitched with thick metal thread.
"I re-enforced the stress points with woven steel," Hemeldir said, seeing Abigail running her fingers over the stitching. "We have also added extra layers of hard leather, and fused steel webbing in-between, increasing strength and durability. It should now stop all but the strongest a sword thrust."
Abigail whistled. "Thank you – that will definitely come in handy."
"Now, as for your … other armour…" Hemeldir picked up a piece of her old N7 plates, rapping it slightly with his knuckle. He paused, seeming to contemplate what to say. "I have been a blacksmith for thousands of years. I have worked with every material known, from steel to leather to mithril. I am sorry, but the materials these are made from do not exist anywhere on Middle Earth."
Abigail sighed, somewhat deflated even though realistically, she knew the odds were slim. "Yeah, I was expecting that."
"It is fascinating though," he continued, observing the plates with a keen eye. "I have tested this with every type of weapon we possess in Rivendell – and none managed to do more than scratch it – even with elven strength. Lighter than mithril would be at this thickness, yet stronger and more resilient. It is truly a remarkable material."
"With such strength, I dare not imagine what could have caused that damage," Arwen said, gesturing at the half-melted plates.
"Well, I only took a glancing hit," Abigail said, briefly recalling the molten pain of the MHD searing through her flesh. "The weapon that did this could probably destroy this entire valley in a few seconds."
Both elves were staring at her in stupefied silence. "Your enemies must have been great, Lady Shepard," Arwen said solemnly.
Abigail nodded, her expression grim. "They killed a lot of people before we managed to stop them." – that hated, familiar blaring call announcing death – the cold, stomach dropping dread of being helpless to watch as red fire lanced through the sky, scything through shuttles – a momentary scream cut short –
She shook her head, pushing back the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. Taking a deep breath, she gestured to Hemeldir. "By the way – do you have my pistol – my other weapon?"
"Ah yes – your … 'pistol'?"
She nodded and he went off to the other side of the pavilion and returned with her carnifex. Taking it from his hand, Abigail checked over it, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Just to make sure, she fired up her omni tool and running a scan. Apart from minor structural and cosmetic damage, her pistol was fine.
Powering down her omni tool, she realised that Arwen and Hemeldir were both staring at her again. The blacksmith was the first to break the spell. Arching his brow, he said, "It would seem that you are full of many surprises, Lady Shepard."
With that, he turned back to his workbench, resuming his hammering. Thanking him once more for his work, Abigail shamelessly dropped the smooth shift she was wearing, leaving her in her underclothes. With some amusement, she noted that neither elf seemed particularly bothered – or interested – for that matter.
She shimmied into her body suit, the fabric armour moulding to her skin, before attaching her new, improved leather plates. Despite the additional layers, it didn't actually seem to weigh any heavier. Elven smithing indeed. Attaching her carnifex to her belt, she also replaced her old N7 armour in its bag. If what Hemeldir said was true, then the ceramic-alloy plates held the potential to be another very powerful equalizer. If she ran into those nazgul things again, she could use every advantage she had. She already had some ideas about how to utilise it …
"Perhaps you would like to eat?" Arwen said from her side, pulling her from her thoughts.
Abigail smiled at her. "I could use a meal."
Arwen led her through to the other side of Rivendell, to a large, airy, sunlit hall. Seemingly only moments later, a steaming bowl of stew and a platter of succulent fruits and vegetables was handed to her. Arwen excused herself, citing a need to talk to her father and leaving Abigail alone in the hall. With a shrug, she took a seat on one of the many tables and demolished the food in record time. Interestingly, there was no meat – it seemed that these people were all vegetarians.
Abigail paused, tilting her head as she heard voices from the other side of the hall, along with the scuffling of feet.
"Hey, Merry – look! It's her! That lady that fought the ringwraiths!"
"I can see that Pippin. And do you want to say that any louder? She's right there – she can probably hear us."
"Oh. Right."
Another voice asked, "Do you think we should introduce ourselves? Only be polite and all."
A fourth, more demure voice spoke up. "She did save our lives."
"It's decided then," the first voice said.
"Why does Frodo get to decide?"
"Because he's the leader Pip. C'mon, let's go."
Abigail saw the four children from the ruins – no not children she remembered, seeing their very adult faces – coming towards her. Like before, they didn't wear shoes and had large, hair-covered feet. They looked to be around just under a metre tall. How unusual. As they came near, she gave them a small smile. "Hello there."
The one on the far right blushed faintly and tipped his head. "Good morning ma'am."
"Please," Abigail said. "Call me Shepard. Or Abigail. Either one."
"Lady Shepard," murmured the other three, giving her timid smiles.
Abigail frowned. Their proportions and voices were all wrong for children, but neither did they look like they had dwarfism. "Not to be insensitive here," she began tentatively, "– and totally shoot me down if I am – but … well, are you human or a different species?"
The one second to the left stood up proudly. "We are hobbits Lady Shepard, hailing from the Shire," He said, before adding, "And I'm Merry."
Merry then proceeded to introduce the rest of his companions. On his other side was his cousin, Pippin; the hobbit on the far right who had spoken first turned out to be Sam, and lastly, beside him was Frodo. Abigail's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, something about him unnerving her, almost as if a whisper had reached over and touched the back of her mind.
"Nice to meet you all," Abigail said. "Well – this time without creepy undead walking blankets trying to kill us all."
Pippin snorted a laugh. "I like her," he informed Merry.
"Join me for a meal?" Abigail asked them, gesturing to the table. The hobbits enthusiastically agreed and they quickly managed to round up more food; bread and tea, with scones and stews – it was amazing how fast they seemed to produce it, almost like they knew exactly where the food was kept.
As they ate, Abigail was regaled with conversation about their home, the Shire. From their accounts, it seemed like a wonderful, peaceful place. She discovered more about the hobbits, learning that Sam was actually Frodo's gardener.
"Why were those nazgul trying to attack you?" Abigail asked. Immediately, the table hushed and all eyes turned to Frodo.
He looked up at her, his gaze carefully blank. "I have something their master wants, something that they are willing to kill to get." He didn't elaborate any further.
Abigail nodded, respecting his secrecy. Sometimes it was safer that way. They spoke no more of the subject.
When all the food was finished, which took a surprisingly little amount of time, Abigail stood up and stretched, wincing slightly as her abdomen stung.
She saw Merry nudge Pippin and the hobbit straightened. "Right, we best be off – important hobbit business to attend to." At that, Frodo snorted, mumbling something under his breath that made Sam grin.
"Pleasure to meet you again Lady Shepard," Sam said to her.
"I'm sure I'll see you guys around," Abigail said. And with a wave, they were off, Pippin chattering animatedly to the others. But Frodo kept glancing back at her, a slight frown on his lips as he lightly touched something on his chest.
