Comments: Do keep in mind that this is a *rough draft* of sorts. Will be working on this. Thanks. ^^

~*~

Ian glanced around the site of his new archeological dig. The site had been chosen just a few days ago on an impulse, the need to scourge through these particular areas striking him on the spur of a moment. Something, he felt, was calling him; something that needed to be refound. Sighing, he pushed his hand through his spiked blonde hair and shrugged off his jacket. It was early in the morning, and not a soul in the camp even dared to rise this early. It was just a thrill of getting first dibs on their new camping ground, Ian thought, so he might as well get a head start.

The man observed the scene. The place looked as old as time, the trees, shrubs, grass, and plants scattered about were unlike any other. It was almost as if he had stumbled onto forgein, sacred ground in a sense. There were a few crumbling yet majestic walls standing off to the side and around the place, all made lovingly and in exquisite detail. Ian narrowed his dark brown eyes. It was somehow eerily familiar to him, like had been here before. Shivering, he picked up his shovel and began to dig carefully.

Just as he gotten only a few feet down into the ground, he was ever so cheerfully interrupted by one of his loyal, kind, and irritable mates on this dig. Twenty-one year old Byron Tyvek came stomping happily into Ian's space, bearing with him a picket, some brushes, paper, inks, pencils, and his ever-present camera, a bright smile upon his lips. Ian scowled, hunching over his shovel. Once again, he could not even have five minutes private dig to himself. Always stalked by… by *him*…

"Hey there, Ian! My, you look rather flustered, woke up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag eh? My goodness, isn't this a nice spot! Quite familiar, I do say, strangely familiar. Don't you get that feeling too? Oh, did you taste that coffee we brought along? Awful stuff, really it is, and the creame is almost growing hai…"

"Shut up, Pip." Ian glared at the shorter, younger man from under his eyebrows. "Just. Shut. Up."

Pippin straightened up, scrunching his nose and setting down his belongings. "Well excuse me Ranger boy, I'm just here to do a dig." He began to sort the paper and writing utensils and the rest of his equipment while Ian slowly began digging again. A few seconds passed until Pippin stood back up, camera in hand. "Don't be so glum, Aragorn. Besides, we may find something useful here this time."

Aragorn snorted. "That's what you said the last time. And the time before that."

Pippin stuck out his tongue. "Aragorn, y'know I just wanna find the others."

"Yeah, yeah." Ian looked around lazily. Spotting something under some leaves, he went to inspect, barely listening to Pippin as he drawled on.

"It's almost as if you don't even care that they're gone," he was saying, leaning against the shovel. "You act like you don't want to even find them! We were lucky enough to find Frodo, Merry, Legolas and Celeborn, but that was just pure luck and a stupid prank we were playing on the 'Net! Then again, we found Legolas behind a McDonald's counter, and man do you remember how embarrassed he was? Turned a five whole shades of red! Don't know how he recognized us, then again I don't know how I recognized you when I bumped into ya when you were busy havin' a smoke, but then again we found Merry flouncing about in the Banana Republic, so…" He glared at Ian. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mother."

Pip glared. "But hell, I care! It would kick ass if we could find anyone else, but it's probably a fat chance since we were all killed and stuff and only a few I guess can be reincarnated with our memories in tact, I mean we were really lucky and stuff to even realize that was *Legolas* behind a McDonald's counter, I say, that's really scary if you think about it, so chances are we're not…"

"Y'mind shutting up for a moment and come look at this?" Bryon wandered over to where Ian was squatting, fingering a small something in his fingers. He looked down over his shoulder, eyeing it. Ian nibbled on his lip, flipping it over gently. "It's an Orc's arrowhead," he murmured quietly, half to himself and half to his comrade.

"Well, that's the best we've seen in two years," Pippin countered, reaching down to grasp it. Ian reluctantly let him have it, starting to search around for any more evidence of Orcish arrows or more.

Pippin placed the arrowhead onto a leaf, shooting a quick photo of it before depositing it into a bag he pulled from his pocket. Writing "Unidentified Arrowhead" for a label, event though he knew exactly what it was, he placed it carefully into his bag. Tucking his hair behind his ear, he looked around for Ian, but didn't find him.

"Ian?"

No response.

"Aragorn?"

Crickets chirped.

"Hey, Lego's ho!"

"I'm over here, dammit!" Grinning madly, Pippin stalked over to where Aragorn's voice had come from, shovel in hand. He was ready to good- naturedly bonk him over the head with the tool when what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks, adopting Frodo's dear-in-the-headlights look for a precious moment. There, in front of his eyes, was Ian. But not just Ian. Ian holding a hand. A hand that came from the ground. The hand was attached to an arm that was buried in the ground. And breakfast almost revisited him.

Most unlike Pippin, Aragorn was bewitched. He was totally excited about it, and he just kneeled there in the dirt, holding this utterly pale hand in his own tanned one. He couldn't get over it. "Lookit this, Pip! A *hand*! And still covered in flesh! Can you believe this? I wonder if we dig with our hands if we'll find that it's disembodied and…"

"How about *you* dig and *I'll* stand here and try to keep my stomach in my gut."

Aragorn smirked. "What a sissy. You haven't changed at all."

"Neither have you, Mr. Still Not King."

"Blech." Aragorn rolled up his sleeves, hands shaking in anticipation. Grabbing the soft dark dirt, he began to dig slowly, being cautious not to hurt anything or upset a thing. Pippin fumbled with a pouch tied around his neck, opening it and taking out its contents. Producing a long clay and wooden pipe from his bag, he stuffed some weed into the pipe and lit it hastily, puffing leisurely and watching Aragorn with keen eyes. Totally gross. He mildly began to wonder why he even bothered to even agreed to answer to that lost friend search Aragorn put out. Bah, humbug.

Minutes passed before Aragorn dug deep enough to uncover an abdomen clothed in dirt smudged gold armour, much to his surprise. Digging frantically now, recognizing that specific detail of armour he had seen before in his mind, he managed to unearth legs, the other arm, a chest and neck. All was getting too personal and real for his liking, as well as Pippin's.

Bryon now was leaning against a tree, looking around quickly as if he expected something to attack him at any given moment. When Aragorn hesitated he spoke out. "Aragorn, I'm getting a really bad feeling. Chills, really. I dunno if we should be here. Remember what happened to the guy who found King Tut? Yeah, he got blood poisoning from a mosquito bite, died in this hotel and halfway across the world in England at the same time he died his *dog* howled and dropped dead on the floor. I know this place is really really familiar to us both but…"

"Pip."

"Yeah?"

"It has a pulse."

Pippin paled. "You're kidding man. A body as pale and as ancient as that cannot have a fucking pulse. You're lying, dude. Stop scaring me. You haven't even uncovered his head."

"No, I'm serious. He has a pulse."

Threateningly, "Aragorn…"

"Pip. I'm dead serious." His look told all. It went silent for a moment until Bryon shakily looked down.

In a whisper, "Uncover his head already."

Sighing heavily, Aragorn moved the dirt and grime away from the face, staring down in shock and utter disbelief at what he saw.

"Lord Elrond!"