A/N: Sorry I'm a day late on this posting. But I wanted to make sure I had this note on this update because I introduce a new character in this one-shot and a new relationship that is very important later on. Just wanted to give ya'll a heads up.

JR

Building From The Ground Up

"Blast you, you bloody American." Caelann hissed, pushing the weighted leg press bench machine back. Whatever the rudding hell that torturous thing was called, she thought. There was nearly ninety-one kilograms on the thing. "If I can move after this blasted thing, I swear I'll…"

The American in question, such a sweet southern belle she had portrayed herself as on their first meeting. Until Caelann had mentioned that any physical condition you were in translated to what you were in in the other world. Dreams were one thing, the not-Yank had said straightening in her seat at the noisy little pub on an Edinburgh side street where they had met that first day, but physically being there? After that, her smiling face had shuttered closed and she quickly changed her order from one not very healthy but quite satisfying to one that would make some of the men that Caelann had known in the service blush and clutch their pearls.

But the tiny little woman had packed away every mouthful, something Caelann had to respect and was more than a little in awe of, and as soon as they had gotten back up to the highlands and her little cottage the work had begun.

Turns out the not-Yank was a personal trainer, physical therapist, sports conditioning expert, and rehabilitation therapist, along with some other things that turned out to be rather painful. Basically, if you were injured she could either be your savior or your own personal demon from hell itself. Some days both, the not-Yank had declared proudly. And what sports exactly did she train people for, Caelann had wondered oh so innocently.

She had since come to regret that question.

It was something called a Spartan race that she mainly focused on. But she also trained people for Renaissance fair games. Having never been to either, Caelann had been curious.

Oh, the regret.

"I train people to ride horses, throw knives or axes, or even javelins. I train archery." With each thing listed the blond's smile had grown wider and more evil, Caelann realized looking back. "I train people to run, fight, climb obstacles, to swing, to swim, crawl. Even joust if the client needs it." Her stormy grey eyes had shimmered in the low light. "My father and brothers are all navy seals and I bring that discipline and training to my clients."

"What about caber tossing?" Caelann had snorted, sipping at her pint.

"Had a client who broke his pelvis in a car wreck take second place last year." She answered, pride in her tones. She was proud of what her client had done. And rightly, Caelann thought. Tossing a log almost the size of a telephone pole was no easy feat, let alone when you were healed from an injury like that.

"Now what are you doing to get back in shape?" The blond asked, stealing Caelann's crisps from her in exchange for some sweet potato chips. Not a fair trade, she still asserted.

That had begun a long training regime that even Glorfindel would have been envious of putting the entire Imladris guard through. Sherilyn though pushed and goaded from morning till light. Nothing was ever enough. If she woke up at eight, a perfectly respectable time for someone who had lived through an explosion, Lyn said it should have been seven. Then six. Then five. Then why wait for the sun to come up before you were out of bed getting breakfast for a full day of training?

Her previous therapists just threw up their hands seeing what the small blond put her through.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that." Sherilyn hissed, her eyes narrowing to chips of ice. "You are the one who said you were going to walk, nay run, to your husband. Healthy and whole, I believe you said. You giving up already, Queenie?"

"Puch ma ho in." Oh how she hated that name, Caelann thought, grinding her teeth until she was sure they would crack under the strain as she pressed again and again until the blond said it was enough. Sweat dripped down places that she didn't know could sweat, and she had worked in places charitably described as the surface of the sun! "Food after this, yeah?" She panted, legs visibly shaking as she let them drop to the floor.

"Stretching first."

"Hauld yer wheesht," Caelann groaned, rolling to the floor mats and laying on her chest.

"Then food. Then we go to the armorer that you found." That was another thing. But this was at least Caelann's idea so she couldn't blame it on Lyn. Having had first-hand experience with the armor of the people in Middle Earth, Caelann knew it could be better and hoped to have a rudimentary plan when she went back. The elven or dwarven smiths could do anything. But they might not see the need until she pointed it out. Their armor hadn't changed much since the beginning of their history if the halls filled with sets of armor could be taken as fact.

And the Greenwood elves were drastically out-kitted when the War of the Last Great Alliance happened. There had been a reason so many had been slaughtered in those war years. If they hadn't changed still by the time she got back? They and everyone from Minas Tirith to the Grey Havens would be slaughtered. So she had been pouring over the history of armor since she returned and drew out the "latest armors" as she remembered them. Now to take the designs to an armorer who specialized in battle-ready armor and get their opinion on how to fix it. Maybe even try it out if she had enough time.

The only thing she liked about her armor that, hopefully, wasn't rusting, was in Greenwood was her breastplate. It had the crest on it, but more importantly? No boob plate.

"Then the swordsmith." Lyn prodded her side with the tip of her shoe just to make sure Caelann was still breathing. "And I want you to swim a mile in the Loch before supper."

She groaned. Yeah. The tiny blond powerhouse and Glorfindel would get on swimmingly. "Can I at least have cake?"

"No."

"Damn."

"Protein Doughnut and honey." Lyn offered in compromise.

Grunting, Caelann turned over and took the proffered hand of her torturer. Then yanked her down to the mats.

Hours later, battered and bruised, Caelann rolled from the passenger seat of her automobile nearly falling face-first on the gravel drive that Lynn had driven them both to at her request. It was the home of the armorer, a Mackenzie who happened to be as broad as an ox and as shaggy as a highland cow. But he knew his trade inside and out and nearly creamed himself when she had placed their order.

Then she handed over the drawings and he winced. "Ye said heavy fighting. And long." His brogue was so thick that the poor non-Yank could barely understand a word. "This would be light infantry at best. No, what a knight would wear."

When she turned to Glorfindel's armor, or as close as she could remember it, he almost rolled with laughter. "And this mon expects to live through a battle?" He pointed to a weakness that she had thought glaring herself. "Or does he no want bairns after?"

"Can ye fix the designs?"

The highlander's eyes narrowed on her suspiciously for a moment as he pondered the question in the shadows of his forge. "Ye said two sets of practical armor based off this," he turned back to the Greenwood armor, "designed for maximum maneuverability and stamina." His tongue tripped easily over the syllables in a way that said home to her.

She'd miss it when she went back, she thought.

"And fixing the glaring weaknesses." He snorted, looking at the greenwood armor and the fact that even the heaviest of the chest plate designs left the sides bared to let the wearer bend sideways but left it open to stabbing. "But more fantasy than strictly historic. And make it comfortable." He snorted again. "Gambesons, too."

Bracing for the question that was sure to come as the rising sun, Caelann decided to take a page from Galadriel's book and answer it before the desire to ask was fully formed. "Think Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit but better. It's for a new television show and we're giving different smiths a chance to do the principle character's armor." When his eyes lit up gleefully under his mop of red hair, she gave her tale the finishing stroke. "She is the stunt coordinator and needs to know first hand how the armor moves." The non-Yank waved, apparently deciding to play along.

"I'm the one she practices sequences on before the actors so they don't get too banged up." She shrugged when he turned to look at her.

He nodded as if that explained everything. And maybe to him, it did to him, she didn't know. "Bunch of greetin' bairns I'd imagine." He agreed and then set to doing what she had asked, assuring them that he would make them absolutely amazing. After agreeing to his set price and the fitting appointments that he needed they had left and Sherilyn had gone back to kicking her arse until she could barely move and feeding her more than a Clydesdale horse.

But the end result had been magnificent. She had gone from walking with a staff to being able to run from morning till night if need be, all the better to keep up with the three hunters if the Valar sent her to that time, and sleeping like a bairn at night. She could climb to the top of the tallest tree or climb Ben Nevis without a twinge. She could swim the length and breadth of the loch, ride a horse, draw a bow or swing a sword all day if needed, although she very much hoped it wouldn't be. She still liked her naps, ice cream, and occasionally cursing until she was blue in the face, thank ye very much.

And much to her credit, Sherilyn kept up with her, pull for pull, stroke for stroke, stride for stride. Even the non-Yank had to admit that they pushed both of them far beyond her own expectations.

And when they finally had all of their armor done and were standing before each other in the now well-trodden empty field next to her cottage, the sun shining off the polished metal as they squared off, Caelann grinned.

Neither dwarf nor elf would come up with the design that the Mackenzie had. It was light, maneuverable, flexible, and durable. Maybe not mithril, but it was as good as they could get in this world. Aule really had blessed the Mackenzie.

She was ready.

Now she only had to get back.

Hammer blows rang with steady rhythmic precision, echoing in the forge as the smith smiled. Then setting his hammer down he lifted the piece he was working on to inspect it as he listened to her silent thanks.

Pushing his shaggy red hair back and stroking the beard that had finally grown back in, he chuckled thinking about what was coming. Built bit by bit, inch by inch, from the ground up. Things were going to get very interesting.

Scottish curse translation:

Puch ma ho in. - Kiss my ass.

Scottish saying translation:

Hauld yer wheesht. - Shut up, or shut your mouth, or hold your tongue. Etc etc etc.