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Chapter 11: I'm New in Town, and it Gets Worse

I followed Elrond in a bit of a daze, struggling to keep up with his swift pace while trying to look at everything around me all at once. We walked down a meandering hall lined with white stone, broad windows opening onto tree-lined paths and courtyards. As before, the sounds of rushing water and far-off music echoed faintly all around, and my head spun as I tried to take it all in.

I wondered, briefly, if I was dreaming.

Here and there other elves walked by, or sat and talked to one another, their laughter bouncing merrily through the gardens and halls. I stared in fascination at them, my jaw open slightly—I couldn't help it, they were just so inhuman. But when they turned to stare curiously back at me, I looked away nervously, unable to quite meet their eyes. Like Elrond, they were all dressed in flowing robes, with high cheekbones, flawless skin, and model-like hair. I winced and fiddled with my own hair in embarrassment as we walked—only to find a piece of grass stuck in the greasy tangles around my shoulders. I ducked my head and willed Elrond to walk faster.

"Lanion said that your name was Smith," the elf said kindly, finally opening a tall wooden door at the end of the hall and beckoning me inside.

"Uh, yes sir. I'm Beatrice Smith," I replied hesitantly, glancing around curiously as I walked inside. This wasn't at all what I'd expected from an elvish library. It was cluttered, cramped, and far less airy than anything I'd seen of Rivendell so far, but I liked it immediately. Leather-bound books were stacked perilously along the walls, and scrolls dotted with thick wax seals overflowed from the drawers of several wooden writing desks. Sunlight streamed in, heavy and gold, through a row of windows lining the low ceiling, and the whole room smelled pleasantly of paper and dust.

"So then—Beatrice Smith," Elrond repeated, sitting down behind a desk and motioning for me to take a seat opposite him. "That is a rather unusual name."

"Oh, um, it's nothing out of the ordinary where I'm from," I assured him, perching awkwardly on the edge of a chair.

"And where are you from, Miss Smith?"

I hesitated, fiddling with my tangled hair again. "Um…well…how much did Lanion tell you?"

"A few details," Elrond replied vaguely, "though I would rather hear your own account of the tale. What, then, was this news that could not wait?"

I felt myself flush, embarrassed at his mention of my panicked outburst at Lanion in the courtyard earlier. "Right, well…" I started, then broke off. "You're not going to believe me," I warned him.

"I believe I can judge for myself the veracity of your words, Miss Smith. Go on."

I nodded, took another deep breath, and began to tell him everything. Talking to Elrond was a lot more difficult than talking to Radagast. As I stammered out my story, I found myself barely able to even look Elrond in the eyes. His stern gaze was unsettling; it was so oddly inhuman, young and old all at once, both attractive and intimidating. I didn't remember the actor in the movie being this hot—why does he have to be hot? It's Lanion all over again, damn it.

Like Radagast, Elrond let me tell my story uninterrupted. His face, however, was far more expressive than the spacey wizard's had been, and his eyebrows arched higher and higher toward his hairline each time I dared a glance at him, incredulity clear on his face. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, it apparently hadn't involved other worlds and helicopters. I couldn't exactly blame him.

Finally, I finished explaining my meeting with Radagast and running into Lanion. "And now I don't know what to do," I finished in a rush, "because Gandalf is probably still trapped in Isengard, and I have no idea how to get home, and Saruman is probably reading about the future of Middle Earth right now, and if he figures out how to use all the weapons he's stolen, then—"

"Yes, I believe I understand you," Elrond said, holding up a hand to stop my rambling. He studied me for a long moment with a new expression, the fatherly sort of kindness replaced by something chilly. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, dropping my gaze to the ground. I couldn't help but wonder, as I had done with Gandalf, how I must appear to someone like Elrond. Probably like a homeless person, or a basket case, considering the state of my clothes and hair, and the bruises and dirt on my face, not to mention my wild, rambling words. "That is quite a story, Miss Smith," the elf said at last.

I winced.

"You were correct that I would have…difficulty believing your tale," he continued. His voice was mild, but his words were cold, and seemed to hold a warning. "Saruman the White has been an ally of Imladris for ages uncounted; to suggest that he has betrayed us—betrayed one of his own Order—is a serious accusation indeed."

"I know it is," I said urgently. "But it's true. I promise. Please, if you don't believe me, something terrible might happen to Gandalf, and Saruman might—"

"Calm yourself, Miss," Elrond said mildly, holding up a hand again.

I shook my head desperately. "You have to believe me," I exclaimed. "I don't know if Gandalf believed me, when I tried to warn him, but Radagast did—he can tell you, if you reach out to him again—"

"Your second claim is even more absurd," Elrond spoke over me evenly. "You say that Saruman has been gathering weapons from your homeland over the course of many years, through his possession of one of the palantíri." I nodded emphatically, though the elf continued before I could speak. "How many of these weapons has he gathered, and what exactly is their nature?" he asked. "How many soldiers could be armed with these tools? And is it likely that he might create more weapons of a similar capacity in Isengard's forges?"

"Does this mean you believe me?"

"Answer the questions, if you please, Miss Smith."

Unsettled by the icy calm in his voice, I launched into a hasty description of everything I knew about Saruman's guns, grenades, pipe bombs, and drones, thinking back to every weapon and machine stockpiled in those horrible storerooms. I tried to force down the discomfort that came with the memories of that place, but it didn't work; my stomach twisted, and my blood felt cold. Please believe me, please, I thought feverishly, biting the inside of my cheek as I spoke to Elrond, who had methodically unfurled a blank scroll of parchment and begun to make notes of my descriptions. A moment of unbearable silence followed my words, in which Elrond's quill continued to scratch elegantly against the parchment. I craned my neck slightly to peer at his words, but they were in a strange, flowing alphabet I didn't recognize.

"Your third claim," Elrond said finally, settling down his quill with a small flourish, "is the most outlandish of all. You say that all of our history, the entirety of Middle Earth, is written down in books in your homeland. Who, then, was the author of these texts, that he came to know of our world? An elf? A wizard?"

"Um, his name was Tolkien," I said hesitantly. "He was a professor, I think. He wasn't a wizard or anything—he was human. The stories he wrote were fiction," I explained. " Made up, you know, for entertainment. Everybody where I'm from thinks Middle Earth doesn't exist, and the story with Gandalf and the hobbits and the Ring is just fantasy."

"The Ring?" Elrond repeated sharply. I clapped a hand over my mouth. "You have read this story," he said, his tone unreadable, and I winced, looking back down at my knees. "You have read the future of Middle Earth. It is written in a book from another land, penned by a professor, for entertainment." His voice was flat, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was saying, and was hoping I would correct him.

"I've, uh, read a bit of the story," I admitted, deciding to leave the concept of movies for another day; as far as Elrond needed to know, seeing a bit of the movie was the same as reading a bit of the book. "I don't remember much, though. Honest. And I never got to the end. Believe me, if I'd known it was real, I'd have paid more attention," I said, giving a humorless smile that Elrond did not return.

"Indeed," he said slowly. He was still studying me, as though trying to put together the pieces of a particularly troublesome puzzle. "Did you mention the Ring to Saruman?"

"No, of course not!" I exclaimed. "I'm not stupid."

Elrond sighed and nodded, then sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested his forehead against his hands. A long moment passed. The comforting, cozy nature of the room had become stifling, and I fidgeted in my seat. Finally, Elrond met my eyes again. "I believe you, Miss Smith."

I jumped up in my chair. "You do?"

"You will forgive my harshness, I hope. You have been honest with me from the beginning, yet I confess I did not wish to believe your words."

"It's okay," I told him, smiling hesitantly. "I didn't want to believe any of it either."

Elrond's eyes turned to one of the low windows, where a sliver of dusty blue sky was visible between the trees. He sighed again. "This news bodes ill for many, Miss. Our list of allies has grown thin. Yes, your story is outlandish, but it seems that I must trust you. After all, your story is corroborated by Lanion's words, which themselves come from Radagast the Brown. Eccentric the wizard may be, but I would be a fool to ignore Radagast's wisdom, or to have reservations about those in whom he has placed his trust. The friendship of an Istari is not earned without reason. Would that we could trust all wizards thus," he added darkly. "And to think that all of this occurred under the very noses of the White Council…"

I didn't know what the White Council was, or what Istari meant, but I nodded. "So then," I said hesitantly. "What are we going to do?"

"We?" Elrond repeated, looking surprised.

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "How are we going to save Gandalf, and stop Saruman from reading that book and using his weapons? We need to do something now; the more time we spend sitting here, the likelier it is that Saruman will have-"

"We are not going to do anything, Miss Smith," Elrond said, raising a hand for silence once again. "Forgive me, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further."

"You mean there's nothing I can do? But it's my fault that Saruman has that book. And my fault that I couldn't warn Gandalf in time, my fault that I left him in Isengard. There must be some way I can help—I have to try, I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"What, then, do you propose to do?" Elrond asked pointedly.

I deflated at his tone, my fervor dwindling as quickly as it had come. "I…I don't know," I stammered. I felt stupid. What could I do, after all? Run back to Isengard and get captured again? I was just a violinist. I wasn't even supposed to be here, anyway. None of this was supposed to be happening! "Is there anything that can be done?" I asked helplessly, feeling overwhelmed.

"Rest assured, Miss," Elrond said, "what help I can offer to Gandalf will be given, though I fear that it will likely not be enough. I will speak to those who remain loyal to Imladris, increase the security around our borders, and gather our forces as best I can. But we are not equipped to go to war, and if what you say about the weapons in Saruman's possession is true, Imladris is not likely to outlast an attack from Isengard."

"Imladris?"

"That is its Elvish name. You would call it Rivendell, in the Westron tongue."

"Westron?"

Elrond closed his eyes, as though fighting back a heavy sigh. "The language we are speaking now, Miss."

"Right. Sorry." I felt myself flush—I was more out of my element than I thought.

The elf seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Beatrice Smith, you have done very well to bring all this news to me. And at great peril to yourself, judging by your tale. For a young woman with so little understanding of Middle Earth, you have done unthinkably well; I daresay many a seasoned warrior would not have had such success. But you know very little of Middle Earth. You are no warrior, nor spy, nor diplomat. I will likely call upon you again to learn more about the technology Saruman has summoned to Isengard from your world, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further in stopping him."

My heart sank at his words. He was right, I knew, but that didn't change the magnitude of the problems I had caused, or the helplessness I felt.

"However, there is one thing I would ask of you, Miss Smith," he added.

"Really? What?" I perked up again.

"I must insist that you keep whatever knowledge you possess of these books a secret. Do not tell anyone, not even me, what you have read, or even what you guess, about the future of our world. I fear that such knowledge would serve only to lead us astray, despite our best intentions."

"Oh." My heart sank again. "Of course. I understand."

"Now, Miss Smith, I suggest you rest. You have had a difficult journey here, and are more than welcome to stay in our guest quarters. Lanion will have seen to your belongings." Elrond stood up, indicating our conversation was over.

"Wait, um, sir, " I hesitated. The question had been burning in the back of my mind ever since I'd arrived in Rivendell, and now that the time had come to ask it, I could barely get the words out for fear of what Elrond would say. "Is there...is there anything you can do to help me get back home?" Elrond raised his eyebrows. "Please," I said. "Gandalf said he didn't think he could help me, but I was just hoping, maybe you might be able to do something. Or maybe you know of something I could do, somewhere I could go to figure out how to get back…?"

The elf signed, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it. "I am afraid I cannot do what you ask, Miss Smith. I possess no such magical abilities, and if Gandalf cannot help you, I know of no others who might be able to do so."

Tears stung behind my eyes. It had been quite a stretch, I 'd known that. I didn't know why I'd gotten my hopes up at all. It was just the magic of this place, a secret haven of elves...it had been easy to think that anything might be possible here.

"Miss Smith?" Elrond said gently, clearly troubled by my silence.

"It's okay," I mumbled, though hardly any sound came out. "I underst..." I broke off and looked away, not trusting myself to speak around the lump in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of Elrond. I just couldn't. I had already cried in front of nearly everyone I'd met in Middle Earth. I was pathetic. This thought made me even more miserable, and I covered my eyes with a shaking hand. "I'm sorry," I managed, taking a deep breath and steadying myself. "I'm sorry…" My voice broke.

"Why do you apologize?" the elf lord asked, shaking his head. "You have no reason to be sorry." He approached and rested a hand on my shoulder comfortingly, though his face was still stern. "Nor do you have reason to lose hope. If I am to glean anything from your tale, it is that nothing in Middle Earth is certain. The world is changing, and the guidelines that govern us seem to no longer be set in stone. You see, Miss Smith?" He sighed, and strode to one of the low windows. His eyes were far away. "I can no longer say what is possible, or what is not. You may yet find a way home."

I nodded, taking a deep breath and swallowing bitterly. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, Miss Smith, I believe we have spoken enough for the present. You are exhausted, and I shall not interrogate you further until you have rested and eaten."

At his words, my shoulders slumped, as though my body hadn't realized how tired I was until he'd pointed it out. "That sounds wonderful," I admitted.

Elrond opened the heavy wooden door of his library, gesturing politely for me to walk through. "Lanion will have alerted the maidservants of your arrival," he said. "I imagine a room will have been readied for you by now in the northwest wing. I will show you the way—quickly, if you do not mind—and then I have a great deal to accomplish."

"Thank you," I said earnestly, following Elrond down the hall. My whole body ached with weariness, and I followed the elf rather woodenly, hardly taking in my surroundings anymore.

"Here you are, Miss Smith," Elrond said, gesturing elegantly down a hall slightly narrower than the rest. One of the doors at the end of the hall stood open, and it was there that the elf was pointing. "Do not hesitate to alert one of the maidservants if you require anything else," he said kindly, and placed a hand on my shoulder. "As I said before, I am afraid I will likely call on you within the next few days, to ask you further questions about your journey here."

"Okay," I said reluctantly. "If there's anything else I can do to help…"

"Of course, Miss Smith."

With that, the elf swept away briskly, his footsteps silent in the empty hall. I sighed, suddenly exhausted beyond words, and made my way to the open door at the end of the hall.

I hadn't been sure what to expect, but it wasn't this. A low, canopied bed occupied the center of a large but cozy room, pale blue drapes hanging delicately above the bed's frame. The ceiling was low and made of up gently arching slats of gray wood, which were adorned with faint carvings of leaves and blossoms. Blue-gray curtains framed a little window, out of which tree branches swayed lazily in the wind. An empty metal washtub sat in the corner, next to a pile of folded white blankets.

It was all so beautiful and calming and homey—I wouldn't have believed it was for me, if my dirt-covered bags and violin case weren't stacked under the window. I sat down on the corner of the mattress, intending to unpack my things, but instead I fell back onto the bed with a deep sigh, and was asleep before my head hit the pillows.