Welcome to Somewhere

I hate disclaimers. I don't own LOTR, nor am I making any money out of this. I also apologize for the many typos in the previous chapter…I'm all typed out. One-hundred and twenty pages of novel, five hours of editing, and a whole backlash of ideas are to be blamed for the poor quality of this story. *sighs*

To nanana: Elrond in a woman's body? Well, you're half right. ^__~
To LadyofMirkwood: Thanks for the review. You guessed right at everybody except for Eowyn. Briar's real identity isn't going to be revealed till a bit later.

***

The man blocked out the sound of chatter. Briar's words, and those of the elf's faded into the background. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to recount the events that had lead up to this one moment. City streets disintegrated into oblivion; the grind and churn of life dulled from sensation-

He was at club, a jagged piece in the mosiac of nightlife. Loud music throbbed hard against his ears; the shape and movement of many bodies mingled with the steady, undying rhythm. He had come here to brood over another job lost, and had found himself instead, accosted by a very strange, very nervous girl. Everything about her screamed 'oddball,' from the mismatched choice of clothing to the bad haircut and pointed ears.

Is she drunk? he had wondered momentarily. Her words seemed intoxicated enough. He leaned away from her, watching as she sighed in complete and utter frustration.

"All right," she repeated. "I'm going to ask you again. Don't pretend to not know."

He tensed. "Don't pretend to not know what?"

She ignored his question. "What is your name? Your given name."

He eyed her suspiciously, shifting one leg and wincing as the circulation came back to it.

"Why?"

One small fist came crashing down onto the table.

"Goddamn it, just answer the question!"

"All right, all right," he atoned hastily, not used to dealing with fiesty strangers, particularly if they were female. "Devlin. Devlin Pearson." Her dark eyes glinted knowingly. She nodded a bit, then leaned forwards. There was an earnestness in her gaze; an ardency that frankly unnerved him.

"Nice meeting you," she said dryly. Then, her tone intensified again. She gestured when she spoke; large, sweeping physical articulations that caused him to withdraw several times.

"I know you, Mr. Pearson, even though we've never met before. And I know, that since the age of nine, you've been aware of something beyond your own life."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied. She shook her head.

"Don't give me that load of crap. Because I won't hear it. I want you to understand something: that you're not crazy, or insane in any way. I-" she struggled for words. "…I'm not really sure how to explain this to you. But I'll try. "When you came of age, your head became filled with memories that were not your own, ranging from past lives in different eras and countries of this world, to lives within realms that have never been seen by mortal eyes before." Her gaze was strong, intimate. It seemed as though somebody else hid behind the hawklike features, the femminine mask. "You are one of the Few."

"You're crazy," Devlin snapped. "What the-" he stopped short, realizing how loud his tone of voice had become. "What the hell are you talking about?" The reply was instantaneous.

"Reincarnation," she'd practically breathed. "You're an old soul, Devlin…or should I call you Boromir, son of Denthor? It doesn't matter. They're only names. The transferring of the spirit doesn't know the meaning of dimensions, realities, or time. The spirit is forever."

It had taken quite a bit of talk, quite a bit of convincing, but Devlin had followed Briar out of the club, into the dim of the streets. And it was there that he had found salvation, requital.

He opened his eyes, returning to the present, to daylight.

Strange, odd-those two words had very much been a part of him as a child, had followed him even into adulthood. Devlin was passionate, ambitious, arrogant. He strove for the best, and would stop at nothing until he had it. But beneath the amiable, no-nonesense surface lurked something deeper, something abstruse. He had lived for a long time with the weight of memories he thought did not belong to him, flashbacks and visions that manifested themselves at random intervals. It had been such a relief when he had allowed Briar to convince him that there was a perfectly logical explanation for what he had experienced.

Perfectly logical, he thought, wry smile on his lips. Notice your own words: you allowed Briar to talk you into it. Grasping at air, Devlin Pearson? He crossed his arms over his chest, put one foot against the wall, and turned to speak with one of his two companions. He was disgruntled to find that they were already immersed in deep conversation.

***

Legolas was holding it together quite nicely, considering the circumstances.

Briar noticed Devlin's sudden want for attention, and hastened her final words to the elf. The man standing behind her only managed to catch snatches of what was said-

"…time's almost up. You know the way? Good…then…start looking for them. You should…because…"

-but the elf was able to pick everything up. Blue eyes glinted keenly in the afternoon sunlight. He turned away, making for the busy intersection ahead. Some wisps of blonde hair escaped their tie, falling forwards and onto his face. And for a single moment, the wraps of modernism came loose. He was the Archer again, a Prince of Elves, a vital part of the Mirkwood royalty. Then, the moment was gone, snatched by the pressing state of affairs with a hideous speed and cruelty.

Briar watched him go. He would find the others, and come back with them. The woman was about to turn back to Devlin when a sharp cry from her companion caused her to jerk, startled. The sight that met her eyes was half amusing, half trying.

The man had been bowled over by a person from the crowd-

-a person-

Her eyes widened with alarming pace.

Gods! This is it! That's him!

***

"Look out!!!" The cry came too late. Devlin would later curse his stupidity, even as he turned to glance about for the person that the warning was directed at. A sudden weight flung itself upon him, and he was cast to the ground, the thick sheet of papers that the other man had been carrying scattering everywhere. Devlin cried out, then reached up to shove whoever it was off. His hands made contact with the other's shoulders, his eyes with a completely different set.

Dark hair. Dark gaze. A familiarity…

Then, he was slipping from reality. The vision took Devlin in a flash of white and gold light-

"I shall find no rest here tonight." Aragorn looked up, dark eyes flickering with the weight of true soul, true witness of seasons come and gone. He opened his mouth, as though to say something…and the words blurred…dimmed…swirled crazily into one another-

"Aragorn." Devlin's voice was husky, breathless. He reeled away, scrambling back to his feet. Briar was silent. The newcomer stood, looking furious. He gestured wordlessly at the scattered papers. Devlin attempted to look apologetic, and failed. The words of 'sorry' that were meant to exit his mouth failed him.

Instead: "You. You're Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Isildur's Heir. Strider. Estel-"

"The Man With Too Many Names," Briar said smoothly, drawing her charge back a bit. She eyed the two of them, both bewildered. "I think," the woman stated, "that we'd better discuss this someplace else. Come on, Boromir." She raised an eyebrow in Dimitri's general direction. "You coming, too, Strider? Or will you choose to stay uninformed."

Dimitri frowned. He was not a person who enjoyed being kept in the dark…

***

Legolas tracked, searching, ever searching. There were seven others to be found. The wizard, the shield-maiden, and the Keeper of Lorien. Up, over another sidewalk, through another intersection.

Denthor's younger son, the Balrog-slayer, the one forged from undying loyalty, and…

A grimace crossed his fair features. He continued on his way, unaware that somebody was watching him. Somebody who's face was yet to be revealed, somebody who also eyed the Ring.

The loyal, and- Legolas stopped, breathing lightly. He turned his face skywards, checking the sun's position. It was almost time…

And…

The Ring-bearer makes it complete, he mused, and slipped catlike into the shadows, to bide his remaining moments.