"What the hell just happened?" Michael spluttered.

Isabella was craning her neck, glaring up at the sky, her slender brows drawn fiercely together. All around her, the citizens of Rohan were gaping up at the skies, looking at the rich black clouds which had just rolled over the blue heavens. Lightning ribbed the dark clouds, and a deep, powerful roll of thunder crashed against the sky, cracking the boundaries between horizons. There was one shivering, teetering moment of utter silence, and then lightning struck across the clouds, splitting the world in two. Rain pelted towards the ground, thick, slashing lines of liquid cutting across the earth. The wind began to pick up, buffeting the rain about and giving the droplets knifelike edges which whiplashed across the people and animals crowded in the streets of Edoras. Isabella cowered, ducking her head and running towards Michael, who was trying to shield himself from the abrupt change in weather. Another tumult of thunder caused the whole world to shake, and he could have sworn he lost his footing, but it might have been the muddy, slick ground. Horses reared and donkeys brayed, their burdens shaking free and iron-shod hooves churning the mud beneath them, cleaving against the ground. Michael grabbed at the reins of their borrowed horse, who was striking at the skies with his forelegs, screaming terrible horse screams, and Michael felt very small compared to such a beast.

And then the wailing started.

The high, unearthly shriek of winds scraping against each other smashed against their ears, tearing and screaming. Isabella's dark hair was in long, bedraggled wet ribbons, whipping against her pale cheeks and neck, stinging her, along with the slashing rain. Lightning jabbed a forked tongue of fire down towards the earth, sampling the dirt and scorching the ground. The world was bursting apart at the seams, splitting in two. All around them, children and baggage were being piled onto donkeys, horses, oxen, anything with muscles and a broad back. Men were dragging the reins of horses, whipping the backs of oxen, and slapping the flanks of donkeys to move, to continue, to run. Cart wheels spun uselessly in the thick, wet mud, and Michael caught a glimpse of a soaked Aragorn through the sheets of white, driving rain. With difficulty, Michael brought their horse to the earth and tried to keep it still while Isabella frantically mounted it, swinging one slender leg over the wide back and looking terrified at the raw muscle beneath her. Michael scrambled disgracefully aboard, and then they were off, the horse surging forward, challenging the thunder to duel and the lightning to race. Clods of mud were sprayed behind them as Michael struggled to keep their wild horse under control, and with a flame of panic he realized he couldn't. The rain was driving, a slicing crack against exposed skin, and Michael's dark hair was plastered in a dark sheet against his head. All of Edoras struggled to marshal themselves forward, and animals became mad with a surging frenzy to move, while the storm continued to lash out at them.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The rain petered out, the skies fading from black as pitch to a fluffy white. Michael looked up, squinting, as a new white sun began to break through the soft, downy buntings of cloud. The citizens of Edoras looked bewildered, some of them still half-bent, peering up at the sun with bemusement etched on their faces. "I repeat," Michael said hoarsely, "what the hell just happened?"

"I ... don't know," Isabella began hesitantly, her brow still furrowed. She had uttered those words perhaps half a dozen times in her life. "The rapid changes in the weather, the feeling of panic ... Michael, it must have something to do with the Story."

"What makes you so sure?" Michael asked, twisting his neck to look behind him.

Isabella scowled. "I'm the genius, remember?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot."

"Michael, think. Everyone began to panic at the same time – except us. Everything got deluged, and then it stopped. What does that mean?" Isabella asked.

"I thought you were the genius." Michael retorted.

An icy silence.

"Isabella, quit it. I'm not as smart as you, okay?" Michael sighed. "Quit showin' off and spit it out."

"I don't know ... yet," Isabella stressed the last word. "But I would give a good deal to know what's going on with our friends."

Pain.

Oh, damn, the pain was agonizing.

It was everywhere, a crawling, itching, burning pain which jammed into every spare corner of her mind and kept her safely secured in blackness. She couldn't move, couldn't think – everything hurt, a terrible pain which made every inch of skin burn white hot. Every muscle screeched for an abate to the undying, thirsting, ravaging pain which tattooed her soul. Nothing made sense – she remembered the ink, spurting over her, burning her flesh, but why it had done so was beyond her. She dimly heard Ella screaming at her, telling her not to do something, but the words were garbled, tangled, messy things. Nothing penetrated her cocoon of hurt, nothing except unintelligible murmurs and whispers, the feeling of being cradled. She couldn't open her eyes – even the darkness hurt her. Where was Madison?

"What did you do to her!" Zeke shouted, banging against the bars of his cage. His young, small face was contorted in rage. "What did you do?"

The purple tiger on the floor didn't answer, merely gave a little spasm and tried to clear his head. In his entire career of destroying stories, this had only happened to him twice – only twice had the Manuscript been injured or destroyed. And each time, it had come as a surprise. Both times, he had underestimated the Authors – usually it was so simple. So straightforward. He thanked whatever divine beasts were listening that he wasn't tied to a Story – otherwise, he would be in as much pain as the blonde thief writhing on the floor. As it was, he was left with a ringing headache and a prickling buzz down his spine. With a moue of disgust, his black eyes flicked open and he glared hard at the Author. What had changed? Surely, surely, he wasn't losing his touch? He had lost count of the Stories he had torn apart, infected, poisoned; But these Authors...These Authors were crafty. And he had underestimated the Suethor, of all things! The sniveling, scraping, whining things which cowered and begged before him. The gutless, spineless, cringing, pathetic girls who always did as they were told. But this one – this fat brunette before him had fire. Oh, yes, she would one day become a fine Authoress, but not today. Today he would teach her a lesson.

Today he would rid the world of one less Suethor.

But before he could pounce, sink his glittering white teeth into her throat, rake his razor claws down her sides, the blonde thief on the floor stirred.

"Melody?" Zeke begged, dropping to his knees. "Melody, are you okay?"

A raspy, throaty, hoarse voice. "...Fuck..." She whispered, and Zeke winced at the horrible, angry red burns crossing her face and body.

"Look at me, Melody, can you see?" He pleaded anxiously. Her bleary blue eyes focused.

"...Shit. Yeah, I can see. Oh, damn, this hurts," She whimpered.

Shonji ignored the thick buzzing in his head and growled, low and predatory, in his throat. You destroyed the Manuscript, foolish Author! Where is your counterpart? He demanded, voice rough and jagged as broken glass.

"She told me to kill it," Melody whispered. "The woman. In the cell." Her voice broke and she tried to moisten her dry lips with her parched tongue. "Where's...where's Maddie?"

"We don't know," Zeke said, close to tears. "She disappeared. There was a big flash – and a bang –"

She was taken as a Replacement Creator! Shonji snapped. The Original Creator, Edith Tolkien, died just a few moments ago. The Story chose a new Creator, someone with the highest amount of raw Inspiration.

"You make it – sound... like it's a – living – thing," Melody panted, her voice dying away.

That's because it is, stupid girl, Shonji hissed. But I can guarantee it won't be for long.

"You can't beat us!" Zeke shouted, his voice childish and querulous. "Melody's okay, and Madison is the new Creator! We'll be fine!"

No, you won't be, Shonji purred. Not unless you create a new Manuscript before the Story sucks every drop of Inspiration out of your poor little friend. After that, the Story will die. A wicked, catlike grin flickered around his whiskers. And you can't do that unless you have all of the Authors together. And I intend to keep you here until the end of time itself. Let the Story die – it's why I came here in the first place.

Turning his head just a fraction, he snapped at one of the Uruks standing silently by the door. Tell the White Wizard to send out the Wargs. Let's give the other two Authors something to think about.

She was tired.

The armchair was luxuriously comfortable, and there was a bottomless cup of sweet tea near her elbow. The tea was always hot and delicious, probably caffeinated, but no matter how much she drank, she always felt sleepy. The people around her kept shooting her nervous looks, as though they were waiting for her to strip down to her birthday suit and streak around the room screaming 'Merry Christmas'. There was so much movement – color, flashes, activity, all whirling around her. She wanted to sleep. Drowsily, she groped for her tea and tried to worry about her friends. But the confusion and bewilderment which had possessed her only moments ago had melted away. Was it moments? Time was elastic here, sly and furtive. It might have been years. How long had she been here? But this question hurt her head, made her drowsiness increase. She needed answers, but her body felt thick and obtuse. There was no sign of Mr. Penguin – as she had begun calling him in her mind – so she decided to strike up a conversation with one of the people milling around her.

There was an attractive young man lounging on a couch near her, and she sidled over to him, sitting on the opposite end of his couch. He had slicked back blonde hair, and a toothpick was dangling from the corner of his mouth. A stiff leather jacket – so familiar, how was that jacket familiar? – hung awkwardly on his lean frame, and tight jeans were tucked into black boots. The boy had a youthful, invincible aura which seeped a little bit of life into her – which aroused another question. Why was he awake and fresh while she was dim and drifting? "Hey," He said casually.

"Hi," Madison said easily. She had a queer, drifting, drowsy feeling which was sucking away her emotions. Usually she would never feel this relaxed around anybody, but she felt odd. Nicely odd, but there was a lurking premonition around her. Her overwhelming vocabulary – so large it frightened people, occasionally – was drizzling away, sucked slowly down a drain. "So, what Story are you from?" She asked lazily, leaning back against the couch. To her left, several children were playing a game of jacks and watching her closely. Somehow, their stares seemed menacing, rather than inquisitive. And why were the corners of her vision blurring ever so slightly?

"Huh?" The boy asked, furrowing his brow. "Whaddya mean, Story?"

"You know, Inspiration?" Madison prompted. Inspiration ... Yes, this is how it feels to be completely bored, she realized. And sleepy.

"Oh, that," The boy shrugged. "Rebel Without A Cause. Whaddya want?"

"I want to get out of here."

She hadn't meant it to sound so bald, so stupid, but now that it was out in the air, she didn't think it sounded all that bad. The boy, however, nearly swallowed his toothpick and spat it out a moment later.

"Pfft. You can't get outta here unless you get permission from the Organizer. An' he never comes out." The boy sneered.

"Will you help me?" Madison asked, feeling unnaturally sleepy and bold. It was the oddest feeling in her life – almost as if she were too tired to care.

The boy curled his lip. "Fat chance. Bug off, crazy lady."

Madison retreated back to her armchair, crossing her legs, and then took a sip of her tea. She needed an audience with the Organizer, whoever he was. She would have to do some more research. But for now, she just wanted a little nap...

Just a tiny nap.

Little by little, her Inspiration ebbed out of her to feed the poisoned Story she was trying to protect.

Rushing, tangled dreams and confusing ideas swarmed busily in his head. What had happened? He knew what had happened. The Manuscript had been injured. The Creator had died. In his Training, he had been told it would be painful, but it had been agony. His knees had shot out from underneath him and he passed out so quickly his brain hardly had time to register the fierce, intense pain. But he had, because even now, as he was slowly awakening, wisps of pain still circled around his brain. But for the most part, it had gone, and he wondered dumbly why. And then it hit him with the force of the storm currently raging above ground: There was a Replacement.

The question was, who?

His eyes snapped open and he sat up. Almost instantly he felt a hand on his chest, pushing him back down. "Tolkien! Oh, God, I was so worried!" Daphne's voice penetrated the fog in his head. "What happened? The Manuscript disintegrated, and you fainted, and –"

"Damn," He spat the curse out between clenched teeth, and threw the covers back. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

"What?" Daphne asked, trying unsuccessfully to get him back into bed.

"We didn't get the actual Manuscript," Tolkien growled. Daphne's attempts to get him back into bet faltered and then stopped completely.

"What? You mean I activated that stupid thing for nothing? Lost my ability to read or write for nothing?" Daphne sputtered, her voice rising to a keening note on the last few words. "Are you serious?"

"Very much so. And the Creator died," Tolkien ground out, fighting back his headache.

"Hold on. Back up a second. What's a Creator?" Daphne asked.

"A Creator is the person who originally thought of the idea for a Story," Tolkien began, massaging his temples and turning to Daphne. "In this case, it would be my wife, Edith. And Author is the person who writes it down, which would be me. Both the Creator and the Author have to be fully functional and healthy for the Story to be alive and strong. Obviously, my wife has been ill for some time, which might be how those bloody Suethors got here in the first place – the story was weakened, which means Edith was weakened. And now, for the Story to continue, it had to choose another Creator from the available Authors. Normally, there are two Authors in a Story at all times – an Author, and an Apprentice, so usually to Story would choose the Apprentice."

"But why the Apprentice?" Daphne queried, following him outside of their cave and into the thronging mass of brightly clad dwarves.

"Because Apprentices usually have the highest amount of raw Inspiration," Tolkien answered, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din.

"What's Inspiration?" Daphne shouted.

"Inspiration is just that – Inspiration. Muses are made entirely of Inspiration, as you might have noticed, and it's hard to make Muses properly. But that's a long, tricky process and I won't be going into it now. At any rate, everything in the world has a dusting of Inspiration on it, for Authors and Creators to pick up. When you see an item with Inspiration on it, you remember it for a Story – are you following me so far, darling?" Tolkien called over his shoulder.

"I think so!" Daphne called back, her head trying to make all of his information fit. "So who is the new Creator? And is it permanent?"

"I don't know," Tolkien shouted. "But it definitely isn't permanent. Without a fully functional, unhurt Manuscript to draw off of, the Story will leach power off of whoever the new Creator is until there's no Inspiration left."

"And what happens then?" Daphne asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Then, dear, the Story will die. And that will be the end of everything."

Time slowed to a crawl. "So how do we make a new Manuscript?" Daphne demanded, a definite note of panic in her voice.

"We must make a new Manuscript, love. We need all the Authors – all of your Stories, we need them together. And it might not work. I'm not sure." Tolkien answered.

"How do you know all this?" Daphne said, finally catching up to him. He looked at her and sighed.

"I was Trained, of course. When I first created Middle Earth, published them, I was trained." Tolkien said softly.

"By who?"

"A person called the Organizer. He trains all new Authors."

A/N: Confused? Bewildered? Good! xD However, I have two things I want you to do – no, actually three.

1) Go check out my daughter's fanart of these stories. Izzy is coming up on eleven, but she's pretty good for an eleven year old. I can't draw for beans, and I'm three times her age. She's known as Sleek-Otter on deviantart, and here's the link .

2) Vote in the poll on my profile! I have a new one – which fandom should the Ink Warriors go to next? Each fandom will feature new Authors, Sues, etc. All of those listed will eventually be written, but whatever you vote the most for, that's the one I'll write first.

3) REVIEW! xD