She was a cunning Author, Shonji mused, his thoughts shielded behind a pair of unfathomable black eyes. Just pretty enough and just curvaceous enough to make you think she was nothing but an airhead, but when you looked into those honey-brown eyes, you could see her intelligence. Not so much her wisdom, or even brains – more of her sheer craftiness, like a fox. Acting on instinct and experience, not lessons and teaching. It was such a pity, really, he thought as he watched her reach for the quill. But of the two, he wanted to keep the smaller one. He had a soft spot for the frizzy-haired woman huddled in the cell, for some bizarre reason; he usually kept the Authors at arms length. Or paws length. His dark eyes glimmered with excitement and his tail twitched a little quicker as Melody put a quill tip to the parchment. She looked up at him, brushing a strand of thick blonde hair from her eyes. Despite being stuck in a jail cell for days with nothing to bathe in, she still had mastered that innocent rich-girl look, even with her greasy hair. "What do I do?" She asked, feigning stupidity. "Should I just write 'Adavis saved the day'? or what?"
Write her name in the margins, Shonji ordered, his sleek coat bristling slightly. And then I'll release your friends. He would keep his promise – release her and all of her friends outside, at the mercy of the Uruks. It wouldn't take long for them to be devoured by the savage monsters. But he did feel a flicker of sympathy for the small one, Madison. She would have made a nice pet, if she hadn't been an Author. Such a shame.
Melody looked down at the pages. What should she do? Sacrifice the story for the lives of her friends? She couldn't do that, not with a conscience. You're a thief, she snapped at herself. Get a grip. You don't have a conscious. But somehow, she had developed one, almost unwillingly. She knew what was right and wrong – she had been raised properly, after all. But somehow, the more she stole, the more lies she told, her morals went a little more skewed, a little more off course. Since she'd been in Middle Earth, something had been fixing her moral compass, tapping them back into place lightly. And for the life of her, she couldn't think of what, and then her honey-brown eyes lit up; It was the mission. She had a purpose. That was why she stole – she had no purpose for the stealing, she could have anything she wanted. But she did have a purpose for wiring alarms, picking locks, charming judges, and getting through a maze of problems. This mission, this quest, was her life. She hadn't lived for twenty years, not until she got here and was given a choice. And yet ... She looked over at the Authors in the cell, all staring at her with huge eyes. They wanted to get out, she could tell. Could she doom them, keep them here with her insolence? They were children, thirteen, fourteen, years old. She couldn't knowingly leave them here simply because she had a purpose now. And Madison – Madison had people to get back to at home. She had a family. All Melody had was a jail cell and a stern talking-to from her parents.
Her mind made up all at once, and she pressed the nib of the quill against the page.
Just before she began the first upward stroke, the door opened with a creak. Her determination and concentration shattered, and she glanced up. Shonji snarled, a ripping growl rumbling from his chest. In the doorway, looking terrified and scared, was one of the Suethors, the pudgy brunette whose name Melody didn't know. She was holding something behind her back, and Quilemna was behind her, scowling in a dangerous, beautiful way, which just made her look as though she had swallowed an egg whole to Melody. "Uh, sorry," The brunette Suethor said sheepishly. "Just wanted to, um, tell the Authors something."
And what would that be? Shonji barked, sounding uncannily wolfish for a great cat. And where is your more intelligent counterpart, that abominable Amanda?
To Melody's surprise, the brunette actually looked annoyed. "Amanda's upstairs, sleeping," She answered, and then turned to Melody, who was still standing there with the quill in her hand. "I, um, wanted to say something to Melody alone."
That isn't an option, Shonji spat. Whatever you wish to tell her, you may say at this exact moment.
"It isn't something I wanted to tell, so much as show," The brunette said, and then flicked another glance at Melody. Melody's honey-brown eyes narrowed at the object behind her back, and the brunette then sidled over. "Melody, hold out your hands," The brown-haired girl said softly, and Melody must have looked stupefied, because she added, "I won't hurt you. I promise."
Melody held out her hand, palm up, and she felt a soft, long, bedraggled object placed in her hand. There was a thunderous growl from Shonji, and Melody peered, bewildered, in her palm, and saw the strangest looking little object.
It almost looked like a quill, but it was so soot-smeared and torn up that it hardly constituted the word at all. There appeared to be blood on the tip, and Melody got a very eerie, I'm-watching-you-feeling just by holding it. Melody barely had time to catch these scant details before Shonji screamed horribly, a brutal, keening cat-scream, and lashed out at her with long, curved claws of steel. The young Authoress leaped backwards, startled beyond belief at both Shonji's terrible shout and the odd, humming feeling coming from the quill. The brunette Suethor shouted, "NOW! WRITE IT IN!"
Melody flipped open to a page at random, and stabbed the quill into the page.
Ink poured out and covered her hands, almost as though blood were spurting from a wound. It burned and blistered, and Melody shrieked aloud in pain, trying to wrench her hands from the hot, searing ink flowing along her arms and down against her legs and ankles, spattering up against her face. The pain was white-hot, unimaginable, and sending bright pops of blackness before her vision, making her throw herself forcibly against the bars of her cell, writhing and screaming. The world seemed to be ripping in two, splitting and tearing, colors and textures blending together. The pain, oh, damn, the pain was beyond belief, and as a hot spurt of ink lashed across her face, she lost consciousness.
Down the hall, in the last cell, a woman shackled to the wall shed a single tear, the liquid splashing on the muddied floor. A gasp, raw and pain-filled, tore from her lips, and her head sagged against her chest, death twisting icy hands around her soul. And she was finally free of the dull, aching pain, and able to give up. She let the life leave her, as if falling asleep, and she pushed herself over the brink.
Her tear didn't dry on the stones.
It shone, a fluid diamond, and then turned solid gold, staying a golden nugget on the ground.
Madison, who had been screaming for Melody, now still on the ground and covered with red, horrific scars, suddenly threw her head back, choking.
When her eyes opened again, they glowed pure gold.
Almost three hundred miles away, as Daphne and Tolkien were trying to shake off the last of the Dwarven well-wishers, Tolkien collapsed. The fake Manuscript they had been guarding so jealously turned to ash. The dwarves converged on the stricken Author, who was thrashing on the ground, the loss of his partner, his Creator, throwing him into shock. Daphne's screams drilled through the mobs of concerned shouts, and she began grabbing at his tunic, sobbing, panicked and terrified at the rapidity of his breakdown.
Over in Rohan, as a newly-recovered Theoden began directing his people towards Helm's Deep, the skies abruptly darkened and thunder rolled across the skies. For a reason Legolas didn't understand at all, his mind flashed to Madison, startled and upset. The body of Ethwein, who had been killed by Michael's ungainly shove, melted into the ground seamlessly, disappearing as if she had never existed.
Adavis gasped and tripped backwards, her Sue-Aura suddenly vanishing as she hit her head against the flagstones.
Quilemna howled and clawed at her Suethor, her good-looks melting suddenly, revealing a wart-nosed, hump-backed witch.
Frodo and Sam, exhausted and near collapse in the mountains, received a fresh burst of strength.
Every single person in Middle Earth, down to the smallest child, looked up at the skies, unaware that their very story was in mourning for the loss of their Creator.
It wasn't anything like falling into Middle Earth – there was no long, slow buildup of awakening and falling. There was simply nothing, and them -
BAM!
- she was awake. It was similar to getting whacked between the eyes with a two-by-four.
Her eyes flicked open, and she sat up. Her head wasn't ringing, her mouth wasn't dry, and she wasn't drowning in a river. So far, things were going okay. She seemed to be lying on a carpeted floor, her hands rubbing against the threadbare rug, and it was dark. Not a thick, velvet dark, but a shadowy, dusky light. Blinking several times, she got to her feet and looked around. She was in the corner of what looked like a library, with oaken shelves stretching away as far as the eye could see. But instead of books, there were all manners of things – teacups, flowers, vases, even windows staring out into views from everywhere around the world. There were a few books, of course, but mostly it was just junk. Bewildered, Madison peered around her, pushing her glasses back up her nose, and began padding down the aisles. There didn't seem to be anybody here, nothing but lines and piles and neat stacks of the oddest assortment of items she had ever seen. She passed pens and ink wells, dresses and mannequins, lobster traps, nuts and bolts, and a million other things she couldn't recognize. She turned a corner and there was a waft of strong, hot wind which blew against her frizzy curls.
Down another aisle there were nothing but neatly labeled jars, written on in thin, spidery handwriting. They appeared to be empty, except for the labels which said Concrete After A Soaking Rain, Gasoline, Melted Butter, Popcorn, Fresh Snow, and a thousand other smells. Unscrewing the lid off one labeled Gingersnaps, Madison was hit with a thick scent of spicy, cinnamon-ginger smell. Sliding the jar back on the shelf, she continued down the aisle. At the end of the aisle, she turned left, and was confronted with a small, plain office door. Cocking her head to the side, she opened it and looked inside. To her surprise, there were people inside.
Thousands of people.
People sitting, drinking coffee. Women hitching up their stockings in café windows, damp hair swinging in their faces. Men stretching their arms, lifting dumbbells, flexing, exercising. Children playing, jump-roping, hop-scotching, throwing balls. Teenagers draped over walls and benches, smoking cigarettes, laughing privately at their own jokes. Madison simply stared, mouth slack, gaping at everything.
"Excuse me, Miss, but are you the Replacement?" Said a crisp voice near her elbow. Madison jumped, and looked down at a silver-haired gentleman with a monocle in his left eye. He wore a tuxedo and looked sort of like a penguin, in Madison's opinion.
"I'm sorry...the what?" She spluttered.
"The Replacement," The man repeated, sounding a trifle annoyed. "For the Creator we just lost. We don't lose many, see, but lately we've been losing all sorts of Creators, left and right." He adjusted his monocle and glanced at her, evaluating. "Now, what story are you from?"
"Pardon?" Madison asked, and then said, "Oh! Lord of the Rings!"
The man froze. "Did you just say...Lord of the Rings?" He gasped. "Written by Tolkien? Oh, dear, dear, dear," He said, and patted his cheeks, looking shocked. "Edith...Oh, you poor dear, what a way to die..." He seemed quite unaware of Madison's presence. "The poor, poor thing..." He looked up at her, and composed himself. "Very well. This way, Miss."
Still bewildered, the man led her over to another corner, this one containing a plush leather seat and a steaming mug of tea on a tiny table. "This is where the Creator of the Lord of the Rings used to sit," He told Madison. "Hopefully you won't be dragged off like she was, poor thing." He said, and shook his head. Madison grabbed his arm as he began to leave.
"Wait! What is this place? What do you mean, dragged off? What's going on?" Madison asked, on the verge of tears. She always cried when confused. It was a trait she had acquired at the age of four.
The man looked a little impatient. "Well, the Demon dragged poor Edith off several months ago. We've been waiting for her either to come back or send a Substitute. You're a Replacement, which means..." Here he sighed. "It means Edith was killed as a Creator. They destroyed the Manuscript – which is a very bad thing, as I'm sure you know – and that's how they kill Creators. So you're going to take her place. And as for 'this place', it's Inspiration. We're all of the things that have Inspired Authors and Creators all over the world. Ideas, images, smells, touches, it all ingrains themselves in Creator's minds, and they usually get filtered down to Authors."
Madison's head was spinning.
"Sometimes they believe it's pure Inspiration – but that only happens very rarely. Usually it's something visual – a memory, a sight, a person. Occasionally it's a scent, or a flavor, or a feeling, but usually it's visual. This is the place where all of the Inspirations come after they've been used." He explained. "See, every object in the world – everything you can think of – has a dusting of Inspiration on it. When an Author or a Creator has passed by and taken all the Inspiration from the item, it winds up here. The Organizer spends all his time cataloguing things and putting them in the right places. See, now, Edith was a Creator – which meant, she had the original idea for a story. Tolkien took all of the Inspiration he could take off her, and when she died she came here, to be the official Creator and Protector of the Lord of the Rings."
Madison's head was still spinning.
"But that Demon dragged her off, and now you're here. So if you please, just go over there and sit. You won't be bored – if you feel like talking to someone, just strike up a conversation. Food will be out in a moment."
"Wait! Who's the Demon?" Madison asked, still horribly confused. It was the first question which came to mind.
The man sighed and adjusted his monocle. "He takes many forms, Miss, but he's usually in the shape of a big purple tiger. He goes from story to story, killing off Authors and Creators. He's very dangerous, Miss, and if you ever see him, kill him on the spot."
A/N: Confused yet? xD Madison is. Trust me, everything will be explained properly by the end.
