Chapter 5 - Reflections

(Also, if you're an anonymous hater: please don't just come to make ridiculous criticisms about my work. I want constructive feedback; not spam from people without accounts who just want to tell me "this sucks" and "your writing is terrible" and "your OC is such a Mary Sue". I'll just keep deleting them.)

It felt to Elanor as if she left sleep slowly, floating upwards like she were swimming in a pool. After what seemed like an age, her eyes responded to her brain's demands and fluttered open.

She was lying on her back, and immediately became entranced by the ceiling above her head. It was high and made of a light-coloured wood, with graceful beams and carvings that caught her eye and drew it in a mad dance from corner to corner.

Dappled sunlight fell across her face, and she reluctantly abandoned the ceiling for the window to her left. French doors led out to a terrace, and through the frosted panes she thought she could make out golden trees and a high waterfall.

She frowned slightly.

The trees shouldn't be going brown yet…

This realisation, sadly, was the conclusion of Elanor's peaceful reverie; her stomach heaved as she sat bolt upright - and came face to face with a bearded, grey-haired old man.

"Who are—?" she squeaked, and then stopped in amazement as if the peculiar voice could not possibly belong to her.

"I believe that I might ask the same question of you," the old man replied. His voice was deep and musical, and she could not help thinking that he would sound wonderful reciting Shakespeare.

But, "Elanor," was all she said, not wanting to appear impolite.

"Well, Miss Elanor, you have caused quite a stir in the House of Elrond."

With that, a multitude of unwanted memories poured into her head.

"Oh my word," she groaned, falling back to the pillows dramatically. "I thought this was a dream, a joke! Far out, this is a nightmare."

"This cannot be, lady, for as sure as I am here you sleep no longer," came the slow reply, in the same tone as before. The man spoke gently, but without any particular emotion.

Sitting up once more, Elanor rolled her eyes and plucked angrily at a strand of hair. "Well if this is the stupid house of Elrond and I'm actually here then you must be—" she paused abruptly, and gaped for a second before finishing in a timid voice: "—Gandalf?"

"Quite right, young lady!" that gentleman replied, with a small smile that crinkled around his piercing blue eyes. "Now, provided that your knowledge is more extensive than your vocabulary, I have several things that I would ask you."

Flushing slightly at the veiled insult, Elanor stuck her chin out in a weak show of defiance. "Doesn't mean I'll answer."

"Oh, you will," Gandalf smiled again. Leaning a little closer, he fixed her with his sword-sharp eyes. "You are not as guileless as you appear, Miss Elanor. Boromir son of Denethor gives a curious account of his discovery of you, deep in the wilds of Eriador, alone and without supplies. You carry strange trinkets, and utter words that would seem without sense save for the storm growing in my mind." Pausing for effect, he continued slowly. "All is not well in Middle Earth, and you arrive as one riding on the crest of the wave."

Elanor stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or simply bury her head in the ample pillows and hope the whole situation would go away.

Before she could make her decision, however, she suddenly realised she was very tired.

Blinking stupidly, she lifted one hand halfheartedly and then let it drop to the coverlet. Her voice lowered to a whisper: "I just don't know."

Gandalf struggled to maintain his mask of impassivity as he studied the woman sitting on the bed before him.

By the standards of most races she was still a girl, twenty years at most. She had tousled golden curls, and the shadows around her deep-set eyes were accentuated by her ghostly cheeks. If the son of Denethor's account were true, she had travelled long and swift over the last three weeks.

She was exhausted.

Brushing through a heartfelt desire to leave her to rest, Gandalf continued.

"Miss Elanor," he urged her, gently. "I would not press you if I did not feel it were absolutely necessary."

Elanor hesitated, and then nodded sharply. "Alright," she said.

Leaning forward, Gandalf clasped his hands together. "Events move apace, and your host believes that your presence here is in some way connected to the failure of our endeavours."

She frowned as she rubbed one eye. "My host? Oh, wait, Elrond, yes. And your endeavours? Like, the Fellowship? Frodo taking the Ring to Mordor?"

"Where have you come by this information?" he barked sharply, eyes widening.

Elanor appeared taken aback at his outburst, before a look of horror dawned on her face and she covered it with her hands.

"Oh, wow, I should not have said that… oh my goodness… Ugh! I can't believe—oh gosh!"

She continued muttering for a time, clawing desperately at her face and hair. Finally, her liquid eyes peered over her fingers.

"I guess I'd better explain."

Smiling wryly, Gandalf replied: "That would perhaps be best."

"Where to begin," she half-moaned, drawing her knees to her chest. "Well, a month ago, I was with my family. We were camping, at some medieval festival thing - just pretending we were from the middle ages and dressing up. Archery, jousting, that kind of thing. And then just before we left, Georgia - that's my younger sister - disappeared." She stared at her knees. "I went looking for her, just over the next hill. And when I headed back in the direction of the campgrounds, I couldn't find it—the campgrounds, I mean."

Gandalf attempted to conceal a smile. "Is it utterly impossible that you might have become lo—?"

"No," came the emphatic response, with force that surprised him from one so frail. "I know this is going to seem completely nuts, but I'm not from Middle Earth at all." She looked at him once more, seeming to expect some kind of perceptible reaction.

"Where, then, are you from, Miss Elanor?" he asked mildly, stemming a torrent of questions.

"Well… Earth. We just call it Earth, I mean. It's just a normal planet, with land and water, and lots of people. Like here, but we're, more… technologically advanced. I'd say we're probably 800 years ahead, with technology." She flung her arms out in sudden exasperation. "I don't get it! I just don't get it. It was stinking hot at home, the middle of summer, and suddenly I'm here and it's autumn. And," she continued without pause, "it's not even supposed to be autumn in October; not in Australia! In Australia, our summer is over Christmas! So the seasons are back the front, and I've time-travelled and managed to end up in this crazy place - and it's all a darn book! This place, this Rivendell, is in a book! Do you understand that?!"

Here she seemed to run out of words, for which Gandalf was quite relieved. He had half a mind to pronounce her mad, but her eyes were lucid and clear. Her closing words troubled him most of all, for she spoke them with deep conviction.

Even were it untrue, he mused, the woman believes it wholeheartedly herself.

"And how do you propose this to be possible?" he asked instead.

Elanor seemed to deflate again. "I told you, I don't know." When she met his intent stare again, she was in tears and her voice quavered. "Trust me, if I could—" sob "—imagine this all away I would. Georgia was the one who—" sob "—would have loved an adventure like this; getting into her—" sob "—favourite story of all time. Because all of this—" she gestured wildly with her arms and took a deep breath to calm herself "—is part of a book written by a guy called Tolkien. It tells about how Bilbo finds the Ring, and gives it to Frodo at his birthday party. And then Frodo comes here, with some of his friends, where they have a meeting and decide who to send to Mordor to destroy it—the Ring, I mean. The rest of the book tells about the rest of the Fellowship—Legolas, and Aragorn and the others—and what happens to them, and to you. It's probably one of the most famous fantasy books in the entire world—Earth, I mean."

"So you mean to say that I, Gandalf the Grey, am part of a legend in your world?" he queried, unable to quench his curiosity.

"Yeah, basically."

"And you have knowledge of how this quest—this quest to destroy the Ring and vanquish the Dark Lord—will unfold?"

Elanor shrugged. "Yeah, along with most of the world."

"Then perhaps your coming is not an ill omen, as we first believed," he mused thoughtfully.

"An ill omen? How'd you know I was coming?"

Gandalf allowed his features to soften. "Yes, we were aware, even before you triggered the deep magic embedded about the valley."

She looked somewhat upset at this. "Why would I be an ill omen, though?"

"Because," he replied, believing the knowledge could do her no harm, "many things that were unforeseen have come to light. The Ring did very nearly not reach Rivendell—" his voice was suddenly heavy as he rose from his chair "—and the Ringbearer did not."

"Wait, what?"

Startled, Gandalf glanced at her. Elanor's face was no longer sorrowful, but twisted in dread.

"Frodo's dead?"

"Would it were a jest, fair lady," he replied, sadly. "This is news to you, then, despite the book you speak of?"

She seemed to struggle for words for a moment.

"Gandalf," she whispered, imploringly. "In the book—he's not supposed to be dead."

Gandalf looked at her searchingly for a moment, before nodding to himself and moving quietly to the door.

"I have much to think on, and you must rest, for you have need of it," he rumbled, turning and smiling at her kindly. "Lord Elrond had intended to speak to those whom have gathered in Imladris yestermorn, but your coming has amended that. He wishes you to do what you will with the hours of light that remain, and tomorrow—that is, the 27th of October—you shall attend the Council."

Before Elanor could articulate the multitude of questions hovering on her tongue, he had gone in a swirl of his grey robes.

Flopping back onto the pillows in exasperation, she sighed.

Good lord, but I'm tired.

Her emotions felt like balls of wool, hopelessly tangled amongst themselves. If she were dealing with literal wool, she would simply have tossed it all away to save herself the effort of isolating the strands. As it were, the metaphorical quagmire was far more difficult to tackle.

Her chest ached for home, as it had ever since she had arrived. She had been here for over three weeks, if Boromir's reckonings were correct, and the days did not lessen the pain.

Three weeks.

She closed her eyes miserably.

A lot could happen in three weeks. Would her family have given up searching for her, assuming her dead—or worse? It had been mid-January when she had slipped away from them. Georgia would be starting her final year of school by now, and her parents would probably be driving to Noosa for their annual romantic getaway. She could see Tim's lively face as he worked behind the Myer counter, paying his way through university. Every evening he would wander down towards the river, whistling an unknown melody. He had always loved summer…

If only this world works the same as Narnia, and no time passes there, Elanor thought, lips curling in a derisive smirk as she attempted to quell a rush of homesickness.

Breathing deep, she focused on the leafy carving above her head. She could not dispel the dull throb, but she could avoid the agony which pierced her whenever she lingered too long in memory lane. For now, at least, she was comfortable.

And clean.

She had not observed her state of dress until that point, and swiftly realised she was in a satiny cream nightgown. It was luxuriously soft, and for a moment all she could do was revel in abandoning the abhorred medieval costume and thick dirt which had coated her.

The Elves sure know how to make nice clothes!

Working to distract herself, she observed the rest of her chamber. It was vaulted and elegant, with panelled walls in the same oak-coloured wood as the ceiling. A delicately painted screen concealed one corner and a wardrobe stood along another wall. There was little else to the furnishings, but the very thought of sleeping indoors brought her a kind of visceral delight.

Feeling vaguely curious about the whereabouts of her backpack, she decided to venture beyond the bed. Peeling back the bedding, she swung her feet over the side.

One glance at her legs maid her recoil in dismay.

Elanor had always had a slim figure, and had worked hard in recent years to achieve the societally-acclaimed balance between curvaceous and "toned" that Georgia managed so effortlessly.

Now, her toils had wasted away. Her legs were no longer shapely, but resembled knobbly twigs beneath her nightgown. Her body fat had melted with the rigour of the last three weeks, taking with it much of her muscle mass. What was left was lean, sinewy tendons clinging to emaciated legs.

Frankly, it did not appeal to her much.

Lifting one arm, she realised that her whole body had suffered. Her elbow joints looked over-large, and her wrists like a child's. She decided she would spare herself the sight of her torso and shook the sleeve of her nightgown back over her arm.

At least you can eat as much dessert as you like for the next month.

One corner of her lip twitched at her internal critic's wisecrack.

Deciding that the appearance of her starved body was not her greatest concern, Elanor stood gingerly and shuffled away from the bed. Resolving to get back into some kind of strength training once she'd recovered, she set out in search of her backpack.

Fortunately she did not have to travel far; the travel-worn bag was at the foot of her bed. Her legs were quivering by she retrieved it and sank to the safety of the mattress.

Undoing the zip, she emptied the contents onto the blanket beside her.

Out tumbled the small torch, fresh underwear, her phone, and three ill-used books.

Disregarding the other items for a moment, Elanor grasped her phone feverishly and powered it on. The sight of Tim's face on the lock screen made her stomach clench with loneliness, so she put it aside. Time for missing her boyfriend later.

The torch, whilst an amusing trinket, was of little use. It would go flat fairly quickly and just cause awkward questions. Gandalf knew about her origins, and she assumed Boromir would've guessed something was amiss, but Elanor had no desire to bandy about that she was from another universe. She tucked it into an unobtrusive pocket, vowing to drop it into a giant hole at the next opportunity.

The underwear was an easy decision—she had no idea of knowing how Middle Earth underclothes would compare to Bonds, but she wasn't sure she wanted to find out. They would stay.

And then…

The books.

Frowning, she picked them up. All three were fairly new editions, the two Tolkien novels with black cardboard covers and peculiar, flower-like designs emblazoned on the front. They would never be conspicuous…

…and yet at the same time she found herself unable to throw them away.

If she didn't take them with her, they would have to be destroyed. If they were found, all hell would break loose. On the other hand, Georgia would be extremely riled to hear that Elanor had burned her three most prized novels.

If you ever see Georgia or your home again.

"Oh, shutup!" she snapped, angry at herself for letting her thoughts stray in that direction. Sighing huffily, she stowed the spare underwear in a small compartment of the backpack, and tossed the books back in. She couldn't part with them, at least not now.

And who knows how useful they will be, she thought, realising that her knowledge of Middle Earth was limited. It had been years since she had read the books, and half-heartedly watching the movies didn't exactly count.

Dropping the backpack onto the ground beside her, Elanor clambered back beneath the comfort of the sheets. She was horrified by how easily tired she was, and how delightful it was simply to lie back on the pillows and imagine she was in a hotel at the beach…

But no, she mustn't. She had to think about what was happening here, and how she was supposed to survive being trapped in a fantasy novel.

I'll ask Gandalf about getting back next time I see him, she vowed.

Until then, she could do nothing except rest and wait for the Council tomorrow. She knew perfectly well what would happen; Elrond would speak about the Ring, and the Elves and Dwarves would bicker fiercely. Then Frodo would offer to take the Ring to Mordor, and Aragorn would pledge himself to him, and Legolas would—

Except now Frodo's dead.

The revelation settled upon her like a heavy blanket.

Far out, how did that happen? He makes it in the movies! He gets stabbed by the Black Riders, but he's ok, right? Or did I miss something? No… he definitely makes it… Then how…?

Comprehension hit her with all the force of a cricket bat.

An "ill omen"… that's what Gandalf said I was… which means that they all thought he would make it… and somehow me… coming… meant that he died instead… like some weird disturbance in the universe or… something… that it's my fault…

Elanor sat up, her face distorted in revulsion.

"I pretty much killed Frodo Baggins."

Thankyou to everyone who left helpful reviews on my work! As I mentioned above; anonymous haters will simply have their posts deleted. I may not be the best writer in the world, but I am not a horrible one. I would love it if people could help me improve by giving tips and constructive criticisms, but "this sucks" is hardly constructive or fair.

I do hope those of you who have been reading this for enjoyment or to give proper feedback are enjoying it thus far! I am tweaking plot devices as we progress, and am pleased to be able to upload Chapter 5 for all of you. Chapter 6 should follow without too much delay.

Finwe x