Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. It belongs to J.R.R.
Tolkien.
Author's Note:
I apologize that this chapter is short again (except this one is a little boring) and that I haven't uploaded in a very long time. I don't want to use excuses. My week is driving me mad... expect an angst poem from me very soon. I hate my life. If I no-one hears from me after two months, then that means I've committed suicide and that I am now dead. Heaven or hell, I won't be able to continue a story. Sorry.
-Naurglahad in a Bad Mood (I've bolded "bad" on purpose)
SET IT OFF!
"She was probably under the influence of the Nazgul. I am sure of it."
"You know how they have powers of Darkness."
"But she could not have been a victim when she was chasing us in the desert."
"True, Master Elf. But perhaps Sauron had made a connection with her?"
"Mithrandir, why would the Dark Lord appoint a mere child to do his works of evil?"
"That I cannot tell, but whatever the reason, she cannot take the journey with us."
"She can't?"
"No. And neither are you three young ladies. We'll have to send you back to Rivendell."
"And just how are you going to do that?"
"That is the problem."
Naurglahad used her frequent sense of smell once again to determine where she was. This time, she couldn't smell ashes and fire about her, nor could she hear the endless screams of torture echoing throughout Mordorian halls. Although she had no rusting iron shackles slapped on her wrists, a smooth cord was wrapped tightly on her arms and ankles, and a piece of linen was tied around her eyes. Like the arrow from Legolas' bow, the rope and linen seemed to sting where it touched her. Her fingers twitched and writhed in search of her weapons, but could not find any of them on her waist. Her knife was gone; her short sword was gone; her spear was gone; and so was her belt.
"Whoever touched my stuff will pay," she muttered wearily, shifting onto her right hip as she lay on the ground.
Ouch.
She felt the fresh wound of that wretched arrow press against the soft soil of the earth. There was a woolen cloth wrapped around it. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Now she had discovered that someone had not only touched her weapons, but also dared to place his hands on her body. That was just sick!
"I believe that we may release her from her bindings," said a male voice.
A silent pause was an awkward gap in the sound of conversation.
"I will untie her," said another, breaking the silence as he stood from his seat and took three cautious strides towards her. Naurglahad could hear the crunch of the dirt beneath the soles of his shoes.
Faint clinking told her that he was probably wearing a mail jacket. She could strongly smell the grease in his hair. He probably had a beard. When hands reached down to untie the tight cords around her, she justified that he was wearing worn riding gloves. Finally, he untied the blindfold.
She was sitting in the same spot she had appeared in: in a corner where the dimming light of the fire created a shadow. A crowd of eight and three were standing there... a good six feet away from her that is. The mortal that had dueled with Joe was closest to her, and was now backing away from her, careful not to trod on the campfire parallel to her.
There was another void of silence.
"Are you all right?" the mortal asked, once again being the one to make a sound.
Without a change of expression, Naurglahad rose to her feet, dusted herself off and cracked her knuckles. C-chan in the crows gulped. In three swift strides, she stood up to the mortal, looking sternly into his dark eyes.
A whip through the air caused him to look down. Naurglahad had extended her hand to him.
"I like you," she said confidently with a stern grin, "What's you name again?"
"Boromir," replied he, "Son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."
He took her hand, and she shook it. Naurglahad had made another alliance.
"Well," she announced once they had parted, "I see one member of this little 'Fellowship' that isn't as much of a coward as the rest of you are! I am somewhat glad that you aren't really as sad as you all seem! That includes you three blithering idiots hiding in the darkness back there!" C-chan, Megan, and Jackie blinked simultaneously. "So? ...What are you waiting for?" She pointed at Frodo. "You have the Ring in your pocket, I know that! I smell it. Off on your quest!"
The Fellowship stood in their spots, somewhat confused at the orders she had just given them. In fact, they wondered: "Why should you be the one to give us orders?" inquired Legolas harshly, "You have only just arrived! How did you get here anyway?"
"If I knew how I had gotten here," Naurglahad retorted, turning herself to face him in a showdown sort of way, "I would have figured out a way to reverse it, and I would be at home! Do you think I enjoy your presence? Do you think I enjoy any of your pretenses? No!---"
"Neither of you enjoy each other's presence's," boomed Gandalf, cracking the banter before it could start, "And we can clearly see that! What we must do is not sit here in this desolate place, but move on! Let us climb the mountains! We haven't much time!"
The female mortal and the male elf's eyes broke off again from their furious stares as the old Istari nudged both of them to face south; at the peak of Caradhas.
Author's Note:
I apologize that this chapter is short again (except this one is a little boring) and that I haven't uploaded in a very long time. I don't want to use excuses. My week is driving me mad... expect an angst poem from me very soon. I hate my life. If I no-one hears from me after two months, then that means I've committed suicide and that I am now dead. Heaven or hell, I won't be able to continue a story. Sorry.
-Naurglahad in a Bad Mood (I've bolded "bad" on purpose)
SET IT OFF!
"She was probably under the influence of the Nazgul. I am sure of it."
"You know how they have powers of Darkness."
"But she could not have been a victim when she was chasing us in the desert."
"True, Master Elf. But perhaps Sauron had made a connection with her?"
"Mithrandir, why would the Dark Lord appoint a mere child to do his works of evil?"
"That I cannot tell, but whatever the reason, she cannot take the journey with us."
"She can't?"
"No. And neither are you three young ladies. We'll have to send you back to Rivendell."
"And just how are you going to do that?"
"That is the problem."
Naurglahad used her frequent sense of smell once again to determine where she was. This time, she couldn't smell ashes and fire about her, nor could she hear the endless screams of torture echoing throughout Mordorian halls. Although she had no rusting iron shackles slapped on her wrists, a smooth cord was wrapped tightly on her arms and ankles, and a piece of linen was tied around her eyes. Like the arrow from Legolas' bow, the rope and linen seemed to sting where it touched her. Her fingers twitched and writhed in search of her weapons, but could not find any of them on her waist. Her knife was gone; her short sword was gone; her spear was gone; and so was her belt.
"Whoever touched my stuff will pay," she muttered wearily, shifting onto her right hip as she lay on the ground.
Ouch.
She felt the fresh wound of that wretched arrow press against the soft soil of the earth. There was a woolen cloth wrapped around it. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Now she had discovered that someone had not only touched her weapons, but also dared to place his hands on her body. That was just sick!
"I believe that we may release her from her bindings," said a male voice.
A silent pause was an awkward gap in the sound of conversation.
"I will untie her," said another, breaking the silence as he stood from his seat and took three cautious strides towards her. Naurglahad could hear the crunch of the dirt beneath the soles of his shoes.
Faint clinking told her that he was probably wearing a mail jacket. She could strongly smell the grease in his hair. He probably had a beard. When hands reached down to untie the tight cords around her, she justified that he was wearing worn riding gloves. Finally, he untied the blindfold.
She was sitting in the same spot she had appeared in: in a corner where the dimming light of the fire created a shadow. A crowd of eight and three were standing there... a good six feet away from her that is. The mortal that had dueled with Joe was closest to her, and was now backing away from her, careful not to trod on the campfire parallel to her.
There was another void of silence.
"Are you all right?" the mortal asked, once again being the one to make a sound.
Without a change of expression, Naurglahad rose to her feet, dusted herself off and cracked her knuckles. C-chan in the crows gulped. In three swift strides, she stood up to the mortal, looking sternly into his dark eyes.
A whip through the air caused him to look down. Naurglahad had extended her hand to him.
"I like you," she said confidently with a stern grin, "What's you name again?"
"Boromir," replied he, "Son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."
He took her hand, and she shook it. Naurglahad had made another alliance.
"Well," she announced once they had parted, "I see one member of this little 'Fellowship' that isn't as much of a coward as the rest of you are! I am somewhat glad that you aren't really as sad as you all seem! That includes you three blithering idiots hiding in the darkness back there!" C-chan, Megan, and Jackie blinked simultaneously. "So? ...What are you waiting for?" She pointed at Frodo. "You have the Ring in your pocket, I know that! I smell it. Off on your quest!"
The Fellowship stood in their spots, somewhat confused at the orders she had just given them. In fact, they wondered: "Why should you be the one to give us orders?" inquired Legolas harshly, "You have only just arrived! How did you get here anyway?"
"If I knew how I had gotten here," Naurglahad retorted, turning herself to face him in a showdown sort of way, "I would have figured out a way to reverse it, and I would be at home! Do you think I enjoy your presence? Do you think I enjoy any of your pretenses? No!---"
"Neither of you enjoy each other's presence's," boomed Gandalf, cracking the banter before it could start, "And we can clearly see that! What we must do is not sit here in this desolate place, but move on! Let us climb the mountains! We haven't much time!"
The female mortal and the male elf's eyes broke off again from their furious stares as the old Istari nudged both of them to face south; at the peak of Caradhas.