Probability
By Thalia Weaver
A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! ^^ I'm doing my best to write Elves. And doing awfully. But trying. ;)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. 'Holy mother of a winky-frog' is something I actually say, since you asked ^_^ So is 'shmucker-doodle-panty-hose.' Yes, I say odd things. .
Imagine that every action you do has ripples, like some kind of bizarre quantum shock wave. And those ripples pass through thick space. Into other universes. And then affect people/places/things…
~. ~ ~. ~
Thalia, munching on an Elven cake stolen from the kitchens, was completely oblivious to the people behind her until it was too late.
"Do not be discouraged that we came back empty-handed, Estel. That steer fled like Nahar, steed of Orome from our bows! And never have I seen such skill at hunting from one so young." The voice was close to Elladan's, though not quite his; it was easy to guess that it was Elrohir talking.
"You make light of your own skill, my brother. I despair of ever matching the expertise of the Elves." The second voice was, though younger-sounding, unmistakably Aragorn's. And Thalia fainted.
* * *
"Father? We found her unconscious in the kitchens…"
Thalia shook her head groggily. "Mrrgrmblhumblrumbl," she remarked intelligently. "Where am I?" Then she realized she was being carried, shook her head to clear it, and looked up into Aragorn's eyes.
AAAAAAGH!
Then she fainted again.
* * *
"Miss? Are you all right?"
The gentle query pierced Thalia's mental fog. "Hmm?" she responded sleepily, yawning.
"Are you all right?"
She opened her eyes. "Yes, I think so," she responded, not looking at the person who was talking to her.
"Good. You rather frightened us- Elrohir and I, that is."
Thalia's jaw dopped; she had finally looked at him. Him. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The Man who was the Center of Her Fangirl Dreams.
"Aaaaaaaah," she responded, trying not to drool. Ack! He looks so young! Almost…my age…she thought. Must…not…faint…
"Miss? Are you sure you're all right?"
OF COURSE I'M NOT ALL RIGHT! I'M IN A FICTIONAL UNIVERSE TALKING TO THE MAN I'VE FANTASIZED ABOUT FOR- OH, MOST OF MY LIFE! No, I'm just fecking spiffy. AGH!
"Yes, I'm fine. Are you the one they call Estel?"
"That I am. Lord Elrond asked me to carry you to your room. He wishes to speak to you when you have suitably recovered."
"I…" He carried me to my room? While I was unconscious? Oh god….please tell me I didn't talk in my sleep again…
"What does 'holy mother of a winky frog' mean?" He asked. "You said it several times while you were asleep."
DAMNIT! "It's…an expression. Like- 'by the Valar'?"
He nodded seriously. Ack…sea-grey eyes…calm, deep, beautiful…strong, manly face…droooool…
"And I believe you said 'fecking cinnamon rugelah on a stick'?"
Thalia cradled her head in her hands. "I…I don't feel so good."
Estel moved closer, and put an arm around her. Needless to say, this did not help her nausea and speeding heartbeat.
"What ails you?"
"Owwww…" she moaned. "I…my stomach hurts. I think it must have been…something I ate…"
Estel gasped. "Nay, that is impossible. Food from the kitchens of Rivendell makes no stranger ill!"
The credibility of this statement was somewhat diminshed when Thalia leaned over and began hurling on thebeautiful Elven…carpet…thing. It was some time before she expelled everything she had eaten in Rivendell's kitchen.