Chapter Nine: Ta-Da! In The Nick Of Time
(In which our intrepid heroine has to rescue herself and has a therapy session with an Elf.)
Bam!
His staff hit the ground near my head, and I seized it hard with both hands. It was burning cold, and I felt the skin on my hands prickle sharply and pain shot through my arms. Gritting my teeth, I yanked harder and managed to pull the staff an inch or two out of his grip; as I did so, a surge of freezing power crackled down the staff and sent me flying across the room. I smashed against the wall and everything instantly went black. I wasn't blacked out for very long, because when my eyes fluttered open he was still in the opposite corner, breathing hard.
Saruman. This guy was Saruman.
I was in Lord of the Rings.
The white-hot cords wrapped themselves around my torso again, and I writhed against them, feeling the bruises break open along by body again. "No!" I screamed, and struggled to my feet. "No, no, no!"
Creative, I know. But honestly, that was the only thing I could think of. I couldn't be in a fictional story, I couldn't be held captive by one of the best known villains of all time; this couldn't be happening. The pain was incredible and seemed to be coming from everywhere; my head ached as though it had been split open, and my bare skin was lashed with bleeding bruises. My hands, my poor, poor hands had a stripe of gray frostbite along each palm and they felt as though I had stuck them both in a hot pan.
His hands were claws, the long white nails coming at my face, and effortlessly he was in my mind again. Memories got dredged up, and I started flashing back on every time I had watched the Lord of the Rings movies, every time I had heard them mentioned. The agony was unbearable. But this time, he either didn't have the energy or the time to gag me, because this time I was screaming.
I kicked out with both feet, making him jump back a step and the tremulous hold he had on my memories broke off. I felt the white ropes glow brighter, like a light bulb about to burn out, and then they blinked out of existence. I reached out with my injured hands and grabbed handfuls of his beard, yanking fiercely.
"Enough!" he bellowed, and flung me again, this time pinning me against the wall. I was thrashing and still howling, but I had passed the point of crying. My whole body was charged up with adrenaline, practically vibrating with the amount of panic slamming through my veins. I was scared stiff, figuratively and literally, but I couldn't have stayed still if I tried.
He dropped me from at least ten feet, but luckily my shoulder and hip took the brunt of my weight. Thankfully, after a week of eating nothing but raw rat, I had lost some badly-needed fat. I spat my matted orange hair out of my eyes and looked up. Saruman looked as though he had blacked out, and I did the first thing I thought of—I grabbed the biggest, heaviest book off his shelves and brought it down smashing on his head.
I was not gentle.
I got in maybe two really good hits before he threw me across the room again. I scrabbled against his desk, looking for things to throw at him. I dug my nails into the faux-leather cover of the diary Saruman had taken from Crazy Justin. For reasons I still don't understand, I didn't throw it at him. I threw an inkwell instead, and his white robes got spattered with the dark blue ink.
There was a high, keening, wild screech of an eagle very close by. Have you heard an eagle call? It's loud. And that's from a normal size eagle. This one was at least ten times the size, and he was soaring right outside the window. I caught a glimpse of his huge yellow eye, and I remembered when Gandalf had escaped on the backs of eagles.
This must be it, then. Gandalf must be escaping.
Without hesitating, I sprinted towards the window, smashed through the glass with the book, and launched myself outside.
Flump!
I landed hard on the eagle's back, and I felt hot blood spring up from the cuts along my body. There was an especially bad one on my forehead, and the blood just poured down my face and into my eyes. Head wounds bleed a lot, and if I had been thinking straight I would have been frantically trying to stop the blood flow. Instead, I was clinging to the back of an eagle, praying out loud to God that I wouldn't fall off. Dimly, through clotted blood and hair, I saw the unmoving form of Gandalf on another eagle. He looked much worse than I did, and he was completely unconscious.
Drifting in and out of consciousness was difficult. There was no way to tell how long we flew, since it was nighttime and raining lightly when we made our flight. My head pounded, and when I gingerly felt around the inside of my mouth I realized I had destroyed the inside of my cheeks, biting down on them hard in the middle of fighting for my life.
I thought about Crazy Justin and remembered the journal I still had gripped in my hand. My hand had left a bloody print on the soft brown cover.
I felt us land. There were voices, people standing over me, and I tried to open my eyes. One of them had crusted shut completely, and I panicked a little. The voices were alien, musical and soft, but there was a heavy note of urgency. I didn't know whether or not my hearing was wonky, or they were speaking a different language, but I definitely knew they were helping me off the eagle. It was somehow important to me to show that I was okay, that I could stand on my own two feet, and I did so, although with a great deal of support.
"Gandalf," I mumbled. "Other eagle. He's hurt."
A pause, and then I heard a gentle voice say, in Westron, "Can you understand me, little one?"
Oh, yeah, English didn't work here. I nodded, but the movement hurt my head. I tilted my chin back and peered out beneath my lashes, trying to lift a hand to scrub away the dried blood, but my sense of direction was loopy. I nearly poked myself in the eye.
In my befuddled state, I leaned heavily on someone's shoulder as they walked me slowly towards something. There was a rustle of wings and the eagles took off, leaving me alone in the drizzle with a wounded wizard and a bunch of other people. They kept talking to me, and before I knew it more people had lifted me easily, carrying me like I was a small child. I protested loudly, but it was easier than walking.
I drifted.
It was still dark when I came fully awake. I was very warm, dry, and clean, and for the most part, without pain. My head hurt, but there were bandages on my various cuts and bruises, and the low lamplight illuminated a bowlful of what looked like medicine. I lifted a hand to check the cut on my forehead and rub my eyes, and saw that my palms had been bandaged and covered with some kind of salve. It was kind of a luxury, to be warm and clean for once, but it felt distinctly wrong.
How had I gotten here?
On the backs of giant eagles, of course.
I threw a forearm over my eyes and suppressed a small bout of semi-hysterical laughter. This was not entirely successful, as a giggle or two of madness escaped me. Before too long, I was shaking from a combination of suppressed mirth and complete terror for my sanity. How was I supposed to accept that I was in a fictional story? In a book? This was the stuff of fairytales and fanfiction, not of real life. I thought of all the times I had nearly died, the massacre at the village, getting dragged across the country, leaving Crazy Justin to die in Saruman's tower—how was I supposed to survive in this word?
I couldn't. That was the kicker.
Getting out of bed was something I didn't want to deal with right now. I wanted to just stay quiet, safe, and warm all by myself. But I couldn't. My head was full of fuzzy memories, and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn't recall certain memories or events. A headache was slowly building behind my left eye, and I felt hot, bitter tears slipping down my temples as I lay in bed. Wallowing in self-pity wasn't an option, so I threw the blankets back and sat up, putting my bare feet on the floors. Instantly I regretted it—the floors were stone, and freezing.
I wished there were socks or boots or something to put on my feet, but the room was so dim I couldn't see much. I knew I was wearing a soft robe of some kind, which was very loose and much too large for me. The sleeves extended far past my fingertips, and I shook them back so I could do something with them. Padding out of the room quietly, I shut the door behind me with a gentle thump. In the corridor, a narrow rug kept my feet off the cold stone, so I followed it for a while.
Several doorways branched off to each side, and despite my depression I began wondering how large this place was, exactly. If the movies were to be believed, I was supposed to be in the house with all the Elves. Oh, damn it, there was a name for that place...That memory, along with others much more precious, had faded into fuzziness after Saruman's repeated attacks. I gritted my teeth against this thought and hesitated at the end of the hallway. Two large doors were closed, but after testing the handles I discovered they weren't locked.
Feeling nosy and generally in the way, I opened the doors and found myself on a balcony.
It was a lovely night. I don't think I can properly describe how big and beautiful the sky was. You know when you go outside in the middle of the night, and everything is frosty cold but the sky is that beautiful midnight blue? Imagine that, only with thousands of pure white stars. The moon was full, and looked like a carelessly tossed silver coin. The black tree line edged the sky in roughly, and I took a seat on the cold marble bench. Potted plants, mostly ferns, surrounded me, and I sniffled very quietly to myself.
I made a fierce promise to myself, swearing an oath on God and my lost family that I would not cry again while in this world. I had cried too many times, and it hurt too much with each tear that fell. I would have one good, long cry, right now, with only the stars watching. And that would be it.
The doors opened with a creak. I dragged my long sleeves across my nose and whirled around, feeling shy and nervous.
My jaw dropped.
Standing framed in the doorway was the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen. An Elf is not something that can be examined thoroughly, at least not all in one sitting, because when you first look at them all you can think is how flawless they are. They seem to glow, if only slightly, or maybe it was just the moonlight—either way, I saw glowing. The Elf in the doorway was tall, with a lithe, smooth build; I never saw a sturdy or bulky Elf, all of them were streamlined and sleek. He had thick brown hair that fell to his shoulders, and a circlet of silver was on the crown of his head. Dark wine-colored robes fell heavily to the floor, and his features were hidden with shadow.
Even more unsettling than the way they look is the way they move. Elves don't even seem to touch the ground—they walk like they're hovering an inch or so above such common things like the floor. The floor was for mortals. And immortality was something definitely etched into his features, which I could see as he drew closer. Gray eyes (I'd never seen gray eyes before) were framed with thick, dark lashes and a narrow mouth was drawn solemnly. Those eyes, God, those eyes had an age in them, which was so weird because there wasn't a single line on his face.
"You should not be awake," the Elf said in a low voice. "Did you find something not to your liking in your room?"
Stupidly, I just stared at him, taking in the whole picture. An Elf, framed by moonlight; there aren't many more beautiful sights in the world. Especially if you've never seen an Elf before.
He seemed used to this, thank goodness, and inclined his head very slightly. "It appears as though neither of us can find sleep this night. May I join you?"
Somehow, somewhere, I possessed the strength of mind to scoot a little to the left, to make room on the bench. He sat down, a respectful distance away, and folded his hands into his sleeves. I turned my head at an awkward angle just so I could keep looking at him. His profile was straight and clean. I wished I had a pencil, and some kind of artistic talent, because a profile like that had to be copied down and treasured.
A very long silence passed, and then I heard myself say, "You are an Elf."
"I am indeed," he said, and although his narrow mouth smiled slightly, those dark gray eyes seemed old and tired. "I am Lord Elrond, master of this Halfway House. May I ask what you are called?"
"Pris..." I stopped myself. "Cilla. I am called Cilla."
I am called Cilla.
It felt strange to be called something other than my name. But this would work; it was easier for other people to say. I tried to quell the uneasy feeling of shedding yet another piece from my past.
"Cilla...may I inquire your story? How did you come to be on the back of an eagle, wounded and in great discomfort?" Lord Elrond asked delicately.
I didn't have the vocabulary to properly explain, so I took a moment to think about how I could say this. Slowly, I told him about falling into this world, with as many adjectives as I knew. I told him about living with Malenkaya, about how I learned a bit about medicine. (He seemed to like this—I think I saw approval in his eyes, anyway.) I told him about Rhó and Aytun and Blackbeard, my three saviors. I tried to tell him about the Orcs attacking, but I didn't know how to say it properly. He seemed to understand, anyway; the crease between his eyebrows grew deeper.
And then I moved on to Strider, who took me to Gandalf, who then took me to Saruman. There, I stopped.
It seemed an eternity before he spoke; he propped his chin on his hand and looked to the moon. I didn't fidget. I didn't cry. I just looked upwards and prayed her understood what I had said.
Finally, he stirred. "It will comfort you to know that your friend Gandalf, or Mithrandir as we call him, is expected to make a full recovery."
Something tight inside of me eased.
"And your other companion, Strider..." here he smiled, and it reached his eyes. "He is following a request given to him by Mithrandir. It is a request of great importance, something that must be done and I believe could be done by no other. That is the reason he did not come to your aid, or so I believe."
I looked away. "I was not..." I tried to find the words. "I did not expect Strider to come to my rescue. I only wished he had."
Lord Elrond turned to look at me and I looked away almost instantly. "Now, my child, I have something to ask you...what happened, at Saruman's tower?"
He already knew the answer. I could tell.
"He..." I swallowed. "He went through my mind. My head. Looking for something, for memories..."
How could I explain? How could I tell Lord Elrond that he was a fictional character? Would it be fair, would I ruin the "story" if I did so? Had I already ruined the story? I don't remember a sass-mouthed Texas cowgirl in the movies; I would have remembered that. How much had I already ruined, just by being here? I would have to make things right. Why were things going like this? How was it even possible to be pulled into a book this way? How much information at Saruman gotten of me and Crazy Justin? And why me, of all people? Why me?
He didn't give me a chance to ask those questions.
Lord Elrond took my hand, and I flinched away from the contact. He pressed his thumb in the center of my palm and murmured, "Please, Cilla, look at me."
Hesitantly, I did so.
God, those eyes were beautiful.
It started slowly at first, like the opening of a lily. Memories that had once been battered and bruised were slowly starting to open, fogginess was starting to clear. The details of my father's face, which had been gauzed over, now sharpened to great detail. I heard my mother's sweet voice through my head once more, I remembered the deep belly laugh of my youngest brother, John. I could remember names, addresses, phone numbers, events—I could see Matthew catching his first snapper and being so proud of it. I remember Mark at his first soccer game, toddling along on his fat tanned legs. I remembered the books I had read, the friends I had made, the times I had laughed and cried and the occasions I had lied. I remembered being in church and feeling my heart open like a bird taking flight, really absorbing the Bible for the first time. I could see Christmas mornings and Easter Sundays, I remembered my heart being broken by a boy I loved and my father's big calloused hands in mine.
I remembered home.
When I stirred, I realized I had buried my face in Elrond's robe, and he was stroking my damp hair, speaking softly in a foreign, musical language.
And my cheeks were wet with tears.
.
.
.
I'm getting rather sick of this mushy-gushy stuff. On to the plot, dang it! I want to see some action, not Elf-therapy!
|Ten reviews received|
Special thanks to: SparklesAreMyLife, Daeril Ullothwen, Petaldawn, Avespa Strife, Yuki Suou, February Song (I hope that's a good thing...:3), Dark Owl, Yashida, ForthWritersofRohan (Thank you very, VERY much!) and one guest: Caelia Danan.
You guys are crazy amazing, and I have NO IDEA how this story got 97 reviews already. 97! Almost triple digits! How is that possible!? All thanks to you guys, of course. ^^
