A/N: Gahhhh! Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I seriously JUST made that promise last update and then I went and broke it, uhhh…*Stands as target for rotten tomatoes- SPLAT… SPLAT…*
So, no, I'm not dead, I've just been in hell, also known as Middle-of-Nowhere-Ville WITHOUT INTERNET for a MONTH! Yes, I know, it was torture. I barely survived, and I can honestly say that without this story to work on and reread and fulfil my minimum fanfiction-per-day quota, I would've gone mad within the first week. But I'm back, and I have this (really, really, REALLY) overdue chapter for you!
So, enjoy!
Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French
Summary: Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…
"…Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."
Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(
Chapter 11: Bonds
"Well, it would make sense," Angela comments after a moment. "Lorien is the god of dreams, isn't he?"
Galadriel inclines her head silently.
"Wai', wai'."Luka's arms flail wildly as she squints and tries to wrap her head around the concept. "Lemme get dis straigh'. You think Lorien's been messin' wit' my 'ead- uh, soul… in my dreams? How does dat even work?"l
"Well if you think about it, it all makes sense!" Angela exclaimed, comprehension lighting up he features. "I mean, you don't remember meeting him, right? So, let's assume you it happened before you lost your memories, say, last week – in between falling through the mirror and the troll."
She starts pacing. "Then, of course, there's the question as to why you didn't tell me-"
"Why would I tell yo' abou' some random dream?" Luka interrupts, crossing her arms. "Even if we were friends, I wouldn'-"
"You would have," Angela says with certainty. "We talked about Lorien with Gandalf, after we woke up the first t- wait, no. You were awake before that, weren't you? With the wolves…?"
Luka shrugs, having no memory of the time she's talking about.
"No… you wouldn't have- would you? But you were being really cagy about it when I asked what… maybe…"
"…You think I knew and kept it from you," Luka realises.
"I- yeah." The blonde girl bites her lip. "But… why would you do that? We w- are best friends…"
Luka snorts. "Were. Let's face it, chérie. Yo're swee', an' I-" mostly "-trust you, but yo' can' be friends withou' knowin' shit about 'chother. It's one-sided a' best."
Angela shudders and takes a deep fortifying breath, face pinched. "I… know," she says eventually, forcing out the words as if they cause her physical pain. "I know you don't know me, I get it. But… I know you, okay. I do. Whatever we are right now, we were best friends a day ago. I know you. If you knew something that could have gotten us home, you would've said so. No matter what."
"…So I didn't know anything, then," Luka concludes after a moment of uncomfortable muteness. This girl's faith in her is astounding, incomprehensible. Even Luka doesn't trust herself that much. Leastways, not her future-present self. Future-Luka is an almost-stranger, and as such earns about the same amount of trust she'd grant to Ol' Jacky or Missy down at the bayous who sells illegally poached alligator meat or old dog to slum-goers, depending entirely on whether or not they can catch her swindling them.
Which is to say, she wouldn't turn her back on them for a second.
"Guess so." Angela deflates with a sigh. "Nevermind. It made more sense in my head."
"All will be revealed in time," Galadriel murmurs, and causing Luka to jerk and grimace.
"Merde. Ever though' about wearin' a bell, lady?"
The elven lady ignores her. Instead, she turns her silvery eyes on Angela, who flinches minutely.
"What of you, Child of Prophecy? Will you look in the mirror?"
"I- um…" Angela stutters nervously, former confidence vanishing once again under the prophetess' gaze. "May- may I have time to think about it? I don't-"
"You are scared," Galadriel observes, a gentle yet almost, Luka thinks, mocking smile curling upwards at the edges of her mouth. "And you do well to be. Knowing the future can be as much as curse as a blessing."
She turns away, apparently dismissing them. "Go now. Your companions await."
…
-Angela-
The crunching of gravel underfoot sounds disproportionally loud in the absence of other noise.
Cr-unch…
Cr-unch…
Cr-unch…
"Your memories will come back, you know," Angela says out of the blue, disrupting the uneasy silence that had followed them from the clearing.
Luka glances at her but doesn't comment. The blonde girl sighs.
"Luka… look, I know you don't know me, and you probably don't trust me, but… I'm here for you, okay? I'll be here, for as long as it takes."
"Yeah?" She says lightly. "Thanks."
"No, I mean it. Seriously." Stopping, she turns to face the older woman and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Anything you need, or- or if you just want to talk… I'm here. We'll work this out together."
Luka halts too and stares at Angela with guarded eyes, until apparently she finds what she's looking for and her face softens. "Thanks, chérie," she says again, but this time Angela can tell it's sincere. "Sorry if I'm not- I, well. I'm not used to having… friends." She winces, obviously aware of how that sounds. "Je veux dire, it's usually just me an' m' brother, donc…" (I mean, so…)
"No, no, I get it. I know how you were when we first met- actually, you were even worse then, 'cause of- uh, I mean, so…" She trails off with a wry smile. "Okay, that didn't make much sense. Let's just I say I get it and leave it at that. I'm not good at this."
Luka snorts quietly. "Ne tu sous-estimes pas. You're plenty good from wha' I've seen." (Don't underestimate yourself.)
Angela smiles half-heartedly, humouring her. "What makes you think that?"
She shrugs. "I'm 'ere, talkin' to yo', aren' I?"
Angela has no reply to that.
…
They find the rest of the Fellowship gathered under and around a small tent at the base of one of the huge mallorn trees, minus Gandalf, who has yet to return from wherever he's disappeared to with Lord Celeborn, and Legolas, who has, according to an unusually quiet Pippin, gone to visit Aragorn in the Hall of Healing.
Angela, mind still reeling from the day's revelations, mumbles some excuse about having a headache and retreats to the far side of the trunk, where she curls up amongst the roots and attempts to get comfortable – not an easy task. Her back is still tender from that dangerous half-staircase where Luka had hauled her back to safety, just a day ago; a pattern of bruises have swollen up on the bumps of her spine.
Grimacing, she rolls on to her side, only to feel something digging in to her ribs. With a muttered French curse (gods, Luka must be rubbing off on her, after all these years) she lifts up on one arm and swipes at the earth beneath her to remove whatever stick or stone is lurking there, but the damp grass is soft and empty.
"What the…"
Sitting up, she untangles herself from her cloak and pats herself down, almost immediately finding the culprit tucked neatly into an inside pocket. More curious now than annoyed, she draws it out and-
Angela blinks. Then she lets out an incredulous laugh.
The little black book in her hand is familiar, very much so. The edges of each page are worn lovingly soft, and on the front page a brightly coloured sticker pronounces the book to be the Property of Angela Webber, Year 12, Form 15.
Her art diary.
Of course! She'd almost forgotten – it seems like a lifetime ago now – the events that had led up to she and Luka falling through the mirror that day.
She flips to a page near the end of the book – the last page she'd drawn on, the half-finished portrait of her own face, reflected in the bedroom mirror. The same mirror that had gotten them into this whole mess. She can picture it in her head, the pale sandalwood with its straight, subtle grains, the simple line carved around the frame, the slight chip on the top right corner where she'd knocked it on the kitchen bench when moving in.
There's nothing remarkable about it, nothing to indicate that it would one day open up and swollen them whole. Nothing special.
A bit like herself, really.
Angela, despite being of above-average intelligence and born to a decently rich family, does not have an inflated sense of self-importance. She's always been more than content with her lot in life, and now is no different. Perhaps it is not the most pertinent question to be asking upon being told that she has some great and terrible destiny awaiting her, but what Angela wants to know most of all is why?
Why me?
Why not someonemore capable, or prepared, or dedicated, or brave? Angela isn't brave. She's not a coward, certainly, but frankly at the moment the prospect of having to defeat this ominous-sounding 'Black King' is making her want to pull the blankets over her head and pretend none of this is happening.
She's not special.
She's not Luka.
She's just… Angela.
…
-Luka-
Gimli, for lack of a better description, snores like a thunderstorm in typhoon season.
He grumbles, he rumbles, he snorts – and with every deafening exhale, Luka expression grows more thunderous to match.
The forest rustles with the breeze.
An owl coos in the distance.
Gimli… thunders.
Finally, Luka snaps.
"Putain!" she hisses, rolling to her feet. Stalking over to Pippin, she grasps his shoulder and shakes him roughly awake.
"I didn' do it!" He yelps, eyes snapping open. "It was- huh? Luka?"
"De Hall of Healing. Which way?" She grinds out. "…Please," she adds when Pippin only gapes.
"Erm… that way." Pippin points without looking away, but at this point Luka could care less.
"Merci." (Thanks)
"De rien," he replies promptly, and Luka raises an eyebrow. (You're welcome)
"Vous parlez en français?" (You speak French?)
Pippin blinks owlishly. "Uh… what?"
She snorts. "Nevermin'."
Leaving the hobbit staring after her in bewilderment, she strides off in the direction indicated. If it's wrong, then so be it. She can do without headache medicine as long as she's away from that bloody snoring.
As it turns out, Pippin had been right… sort of. By the time Luka wanders into the right hall – and seriously, where is the signage in this place? – the night sky is pitch black above the trees, and the city is alight with the glow of white lanterns.
She knows she's in the right place when she spies Legolas perched in the fork of the tree whose trunk forms the central pillar of the hall. He notices her at the same time she does, and gives her a curious look.
"Gimli's snorin' is atrocious," Luka says by way of explanation.
Legolas quirks a wan smile. "Say no more," he murmurs quietly, out of deference to the sleeping occupants of the room. "There are many spare beds. You are welcome to stay."
Once ensconced in bed though – one more comfortable than any she can remember staying in – Luka finds sleep will not come. Her body aches in ways that are both familiar and yet as irritating as ever, and the day's revelations lie heavy on her mind.
Should she even go to sleep? What with Lorien apparently messing with her mind in her dreams? It's not as though she wants the bastard in there, but she can only avoid sleep for so long, especially if she ever wants to heal from all these injuries she's suddenly sporting.
Eventually, exhaustion wins out.
…
Back alley off Herald Avenue, a scruffy, acne-ridden boy – no older than eighteen or nineteen – corners a little blonde girl against the wall, swaggering close with hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. Luka eyes them from the street corner, trying to decide whether she can wrangle payment out of the kid for running off her harasser. She doesn't have the looks of a slum-rat; face too filled out, clothes too clean. From the suburbs, probably. Might have some cash on her if Luka's lucky.
But before she make a move, the girl takes the situation into her own hands. Darting nimbly under the boy's arm – now that she thinks about it, that horsey face looks familiar… Georgie Broomfield's son? What's his name, Kenny? Jimmy? – Blondie nails him in the balls with a strong, if ungainly back kick.
Luka whistles appreciatively. "Merde," she murmurs to herself. "Kid's go' guts."
Unfortunately, guts just aren't gonna cut it.
Jimmy – probably not his name, but she's going with it – recovers with impressive speed despite the agony he must be in, and grabs her around the middle and throws her to the ground. Blondie lets out a pained yelp as her shoulder meets the ground first, followed by the rest of her body weight driving it into the rough bitumen.
Luka decides it's time to step in.
"Oi!" She calls, sauntering towards them. "What's up, enfoiré? Got tired 'o beatin' up ya sisters, eh?"
Jimmy swings around with a snarl. "Who de fuck-?"
"Or, wai', lemme guess." She tilts her head, batting her eyelids mockingly. "Ya lil sisters go' tired o' you' shit, an' now dey beat de shit outta you, instead. Tell me, Jimmy, ya want kids, some day?" She looks him up and down, lingering on one particular area with a smirk. "I dunno. Ya migh' 'ave… issues."
Jimmy's face purples. "Baudouin," he spits, and ooh, she's famous, huh? Awesome. "Fuck off, ya lil shit. An' you should keep you' nose the fuck outta my business if yo' know what's good for yo'."
"Oh?" Still smirking, she steps right into his personal space, loving how her recent growth spurt means he has to look up at her, even though he's at least two years older. Jimmy's a right weedy little shit, all bone and pockmarked skin. Only his mother could love him.
"Why's dat?"
His next words cause her smirk to drop instantly.
"Who's dat kid who's always followin' ya round, Baudouain? Ya bro-"
Crunch!
Face eerily blank, eyes like ice, Luka watches dispassionately as Jimmy lies on the ground clutching his ruined face, and inspects her knuckles for blood. His wild eyes meet hers, and she looks back, pointedly holding his gaze while she dusts hjer hand off on her jeans.
"Go tell ya lil boy band, Jimmy," she says conversationally, "dat if yo', or anyone touches my brother," she says conversationally, "next time, I'll break you' neck."
A sharp intake of breath draws her eyes back to the girl, who'd taken advantage of the distraction to scramble to her feet and is now staring at her with wide eyes, looking needlessly terrified. She's hardly in danger anymore.
Luka sighs, fighting the urge to rub her temple.
"Go home, kid," she says tiredly. "Stay outta de slums an' you'll be fine. Jimmy-boy 'ere won' come after ya."
The girl doesn't move. Her staring doesn't end, but some of the fear has left her eyes, replaced by something else Luka doesn't care to read. She rolls her eyes and starts to walk away.
"I know you," the girl says suddenly, causing Luka to pause, but she doesn't look and doesn't turn back. "You're that girl from school who dropped out last year. Luka, right? Luka Baudouin?"
Luka snorts. "'Dat girl who dropped ou',' huh? No' exac'ly how I hoped t' be remembered."
She starts walking again, and the girl trails after her, curiosity overwhelming wariness and common sense.
"Why did you? Drop out, I mean?"
"Bills t' be payed, chérie," she shrugs, not sure why she's even bothering to explain. "Somethin' had t' give."
"Oh." That shuts her up, but not for long, much to Luka's exasperation.
"I'm Angela," she announces, then trails off, looking pointedly at Luka.
She raises an eyebrow. "Good fo' yo'."
Angela huffs. "You're supposed to say, 'Nice ta meet ya Angela. I'm Luka,'" she quoted in a terrible imitation of Luka's accent.
"Why? Yo' already know m' name. An' I'm Cajun, not Australian, kid."
"It's polite!" She protests, hopping over a pile of scrap metal. "And stop calling me 'kid'! You're barely older than me."
Despite herself, Luka laughs. "Wha'e'er yo' say… kid."
"Heeey!"
Angela grumbles under her breath for a few minutes as they walk together in relative silence, Luka enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of comradery with the younger girl. She's a brat, and for too naïve for her own good, but she's got a spirit to her that Luka can appreciate.
Soon enough the sounds of the main street start to filter down to them, honking cars and the background hum of voices. Luka halts at the edge of the alley and folds her arms.
"Here's you' stop, kiddo."
Angela looks up. "Huh?"
"You' stop," she repeats. "We're outta de slums, you'll be safe 'ere. Yo' know de way 'ome?"
"Home?" She parrots, frown forming.
"Yeah, 'ome. Ya know, de place yo' live in?" Sighing, she rolls her eyes. "Go on, 'fore yo' maman an' papa star' worryin'."
"Just my mum, actually," Angela corrects quietly, looking down. "Dad left when I was little. Dunno where he is. Don't care."
Luka can empathise. While he lived, her father had been a raging alcoholic, his binges often drying up the bills meant to go towards food or basic necessities. She'd been guiltily relieved when the call from hospital came saying that she should come to claim the body.
She'd never known her mother. She'd known her Émile's mother for exactly five minutes, when she turned up at the door one night with a pile of paperwork under one arm and her infant son under the other like so much raw meat.
Papa had drunken himself into unconsciousness some hours earlier and the 'lady' had been 'busy' and 'couldn't stay', so Luka, all of six years old, had forged her father's signature on the adoption papers – whether or not they'd been legitimate, she still doesn't know to this day, but no-one's come to challenge them – carried her new baby brother inside and sang Papa's favourite drinking song to him until he fell asleep.
"Do me a favour," she says, not looking at Angela. Instead, she stares out at the passing traffic. "When yo' get 'ome, give you' maman a hug for me, tell 'er yo' love 'er. I ne'er tol' my papa, an' now 'e's gone." She unfolds her arms, and starts to walk back the way she'd come.
"…Still 'aven't worked ou' if I regret dat."
This time she makes it a few metres before Angela's voice calls her back.
"Did you mean it?"
She stops. "What?"
"What you said back there, to Jimmy? If he hurt your brother… would you really do that?"
Luka stills, not saying anything for a few moments. "I don't know," she answers finally, truthfully. "Would you?"
A/N: Hope you enjoyed that little glimpse into how Luka and Angela met, because I certainly enjoyed writing it. For some reason it's always so much more fun writing scenes that are off canon-script. I think it's just the freedom of being able to write it anyway I want, without the constraints of the original dialogue and plot path. Anyway, hope you liked it. Let me know what you think.
Review? Pretty pretty please? Even if it's just to throw tomatoes?
Sorry again for the delay, love y'all,
Amanda