A/N: Hi everyone! I wanted to say thank you to all my reviewers and followers on this series so far. This one-shot is part 5 of 15 for mainly the in-between years of The Singer Series that is currently in the planning stages. And it continues on in my OC's side of the story. I hope you all enjoy getting to know Caelann as I have.

As always, like, follow, favorite, subscribe, and review!

Much Love,

JR

Ps. Send chocolate, tea, and something hard to drink for the muses. They aren't picky but need to be placated so they don't run off before I finish writing.

Keep Fighting

Picking up a small flat stone, Caelann tossed it in her hand to get the sand off. Once. Twice. Then flung it with all her might across the loch. Normally she was quite talented at skipping stones, finding the practice meditative.

Not today.

Today was a day for anger.

Those days had happened with too much frequency for her liking ever since she had gotten back. Gotten back from war. It didn't really matter if she was referring to here in the modern world, "her world," or in the world that all of her psychologists kept trying to convince her was just a figment of her imagination. A product of her overwrought dreams due to her injuries. To help her cope.

She didn't need help "coping." She needed her life back. Not this one where everything, since she had been shipped home almost ready for a casket, felt like a bad dream. No. She wanted her husband. Her son.

She had never had a son, the doctors tried reminding her. But she had seen the scans. Knew enough about how the bones worked to see that her pelvis has spread in order to accommodate the child's birth. "It's from the blast," they said. Could be, she knew, but it wasn't.

At least she didn't have friends and family to worry about her. Not even friends from her time in the service. At least they couldn't join in on the lie and make her think that she really had gone crazy. One good thing about being a loner, she supposed. Oh, she had acquaintances who considered themselves friends, she wasn't entirely antisocial. She had even gone on dates, before her husband. But their opinion of her never really mattered. Why should it?

Humming softly, she picked up another rock and hefted it lightly. She hadn't even had to shift from her seat on the fallen tree to do it. Small blessing. Her leg was killing her today. But she had asked for it, she supposed, pushing herself so hard in physical therapy that morning. Well, that and the chill of the misting rain.

She refused to stay a gimp forever though. The Valar would keep their promise. Days, weeks, months, even years may pass but they would keep it. And so would she. And when that day came she would be able to run. She would run and cling to her husband and child like the lifelines they had been since she returned from war, and never let go. She would run with Legolas through the trees. She would swim with Thranduil through many rivers that ran through Greenwood. Even if it was only for a little while before she had to don armor once more and go back into the fray to protect them.

"What do ye want from me?" She hissed to the gently lapping waters, flinging the stone across them. "Ye said it wouldnae be long. Do I have to get mesel' near blown up again?" She snorted. Even if that was the way it worked, she knew she was never going back to combat again. Not just the injuries, but her insistence that she had a husband and child, although she never named them or said where they were, had seen to that. She had been written off by the military as a mental case. Just as well, she shrugged mentally.

"Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome, me arse."She sighed, bending to pick up another rock and cursing a blue streak when she slid off the damp moss-covered tree and clattered to the ground, her sturdy walking stick trapped under her. "Oh for the love of…" She broke off, rolling off her weakened and scarred side. Not that back or front was much better, but she couldn't lay on the cold ground until someone found her. She had chosen this stretch of shore for the very fact that almost no one came down to it.

The water almost seemed to be laughing at her as it kept rocking away. "And to think ye were my favorite of the Valar." She muttered, propping the fallen stick against the log so that she wouldn't trip on it as she tried to get up. Try being the operative word.

She hadn't taken her pain medication as often as the doctors would have liked her to, not liking the fuzzy feeling it left on her thoughts. And she most certainly did not take the anti-depressants and the anti-psychotics that they prescribed. She wasn't suicidal and she wasn't crazy. Although she thought on a laugh, she would say that if she were wouldn't she?

She had no doubt that there were people who needed both, there was no shame in that. But she couldn't allow her memories of Thranduil and Legolas, of home, to fade in a drug-induced stupor. If she did? Then there really was nothing left to fight for. No reason to get up and push through her therapy. No reason even to leave her bed.

Grunting in pain, she pushed up onto her sort of working knee and then used the tree to leverage herself back up and onto its soft moss-covered surface. Taking a breath, she brushed the sand and bits of decayed leaves away before pausing to look at the scaring that covered one of her hands. It was still ugly and red with angry raised welts, but at least the bandages had come off. At least she still had a hand. At least it still worked, although it ached and the skin was sensitive to the slightest touch and thin. That would improve with time she knew. Burns did, even if they scarred awfully and gave her pain for the rest of her life. And she had survived. That was what counted.

Reaching into the small bag that hung over one of the fallen tree's upturned roots, Caelann fished her bottle of water that probably took up a good seventy percent of the space in the small over the shoulder bag. From one of the small side pockets, she fished out a tiny bottle of an over-the-counter pain killer and popped two in her mouth. Returning everything to its place, she pulled her very weather proofed mobile and checked the time.

"Damn." Caelann breathed. She was expecting the Yank who had contacted her on her social media of all things in less than two hours. Pretending that it was just a random little story that she made up, not even including recognizable names, she had written a story in the form of a journal. One of the only things that her therapist approved of in regard to her "delusions." "Get it out of yer head and onto the page. Who kens, maybe ye'll write a best seller."

It was a small little thing that she didn't think did any justice to the kingdoms she had visited or the life she had lived. But someone had recognized the kernel of truth that had been in its pages.

The American had emailed her and asked something rather odd and specific. Did she have the blackouts too? The times that she would sit and dream of Middle Earth and it was so real that she could almost taste the sweetness of the air but she couldn't touch anything and no one could see her. If she tried to get their attention or simply pick anything up, did she pass right through like a ghost?

Honestly, at first, she had suspected the American of being a wee bit touched in the head herself. And she was Scottish with a healthy respect for the little people and the things that couldn't be explained! But the American provided details of Arda that hadn't been included in the story she posted or even in the books. Even identified people she mentioned but gave different names for. And she hadn't been put off when Caelann had tried to gently steer her away.

So, when the American had been traveling to the UK and she asked to meet, curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had agreed. At least it would be entertaining if it turned out that the Yank was absolutely rocket.

Pulling the strap of the crossbody bag over her head, she gingerly rose to her feet and collected her walking stick, musing how very like Gandalf's it was. It didn't have the twisted limbs at the top, nor was it as long as his. But she had been pleasantly surprised how useful hers had been. Like now as she walked back through the trees and low brush, it did double duty to keep her upright and shove tripping hazards out of the way.

Sweating by the time she reached her car, she nearly sagged into the seat, determination growing with every breath as her hands stopped shaking. She would win this. She may be scarred, but she was not dead. And if the Valar thought to forget their promise to her, she would find them no matter how long it took and drag them down off their thrones and make them listen, make them send her back. She was going to go home and damn them if they thought to stop her.

Catching the last of her thoughts on a far distant shore, Tulkas smiled. "That's my girl." He whispered to the wind that carried his words back to her ears. "Keep fighting."

Unfamiliar Terms Glossary:

Rocket- Crazy/ Insane