A/N

Again, thank you all very much for the lovely reviews. Although I write because I enjoy it, and I want to see where the story goes, I must admit I love the reviews (which luckily have only been good so far!) Since writing this story, I have begun to realize how nerve-racking it can be when you post a story and receive no reviews, since they are the only way you know people are actually reading your story. I'm not sure how others write and create their stories, but I put quite a bit of effort into mine, writing and rewriting, considering word choice, deciding if certain utterances fit certain characters, flipping through my dog-eared copies of the novels themselves making sure I don't make obvious blunders and checking my pages upon pages of notes to make sure there is continuity. (Excuse my rant, but why don't people understand Gandalf is a wizard - not a human? I realize in Ms. Rowling's world wizards are humans, but Tolkien was rather specific in creating a separate race called wizards! End of rant.) Anyway, I really appreciate those of you who take the time to comment and if anyone would like me to read their story or beta-read it, I would be more than happy to! I have been posting late Sunday night every week, which I plan to continue doing, although this next week might be late. Don't fret though, because I will finish the story, having already written the last two chapters! So without further ado....



Chapter 8



Alone in the darkened room, Frodo gasped and leaned against a chair for support, the pain coming swiftly and strongly. A knife of white fire stabbed at his chest again and again, then slowly faded, leaving behind only a dull ache.

**One year.** Frodo remembered. **My anniversary of Weathertop.** As the pain subsided, he was left weak and lay down on the bed and fell asleep. Passing by on his way to the evening meal, Bilbo knocked softly on Frodo's door, and stepped inside, calling his nephew's name.

"Frodo? Lad, are you in here?" Bilbo sighed as he found Frodo lying asleep on his side.

**Ah, Frodo. It's hard on you, isn't lad? I can still feel that pull and that hatred, too. Will it ever go away?** Tucking the covers securely around Frodo, Bilbo pulled up a chair and rocked, singing one of his made-up songs.



****



`Where did you get my bag and why are you going through my personal belongings? I realize your world is a bit different, but surely people understand the concept of privacy here?!` Miranda's outrage, if not her words, were understandable. The various peoples of Middle-Earth looked on in alarm as the red-faced woman approached the main dais as rapidly as possible. Luckily for Elrond and the rest, she was still rather weak and leaned heavily on Sam, who was at a loss as to what to do.

Having swiftly regained his composure, Legolas immediately grasped the point of the woman's anger and gathered up the remaining items, carefully replacing them in the bag. He then bowed slightly before her and gravely returned the bag.

"My sincerest apologies, Miranda, we thought only to find some clue as to your origins. We meant no dishonor." His voice was calmly soothing, and although Miranda wasn't sure what he was saying, she understood his bow and his return of her overnight bag. Embarrassment began to overtake her as she realized how badly she'd overreacted. **They probably have no clue what a diaphragm is,** she thought. **At least they didn't find the tampons and mace at the bottom. And now they think I'm a mad-woman. Open mouth, insert foot.** She took a deep breath, smiled sheepishly and offered her hands up in what she hoped was a universal gesture of 'oops!'

The Elves, sensing that crisis had been averted, returned to eating and murmuring amongst themselves, but watched the scene unfolding in front of them. Legolas took Miranda's hand lightly with his own and lead her to the dais to greet Lord Elrond and Arwen. Although they were no closer to revealing Miranda's identity, they had certain clues which made them suspect she was a lady of breeding. Her hands were smooth and well cared for, and her skin pale. Had she been a human peasant, she would show the signs of a life of work. Her clothing and leather sack, although alien to them, had been wrought of fine, soft materials and good workmanship. Her manner and stance also did not appear to be those of a subservient.

"I am Elrond, lord of this city called Imladris, or Rivendell by your kind. This is my daughter, Arwen, the Evenstar of our people. We are glad to offer you the hospitality of our home during your convalescence." He chose not to say more, fully aware the woman had little understanding of his words. Taking Miranda's hand in his, Elrond gazed at her, searching her eyes. He felt no malice within her, only confusion, embarrassment and slight fear. He relaxed his stern countenance and let her know that he meant her no harm. He then turned and swept his arm, offering a seat at a nearby table.

**What IS this place?** Miranda wondered to herself as she sat at a low table next to Sam. The tall one, Elrond she remembered, had seemed to, well, he seemed to look inside her. She had felt naked, exposed, but no fear. His gaze had been severe and benevolent at the same time. She felt drained and sat quietly at the table, eating what was placed before her, while surveying the large hall. The ceiling appeared so far up that it was indistinguishable from a night sky. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with enormous windows, revealing the surrounding city which glowed from imperceptible lights. Though the hall was quite large and ornate, it somehow retained an air of coziness. The tall, unaccessible people seemed smaller, while sitting, more kind.

Excluding the few men she had traveled with, the rest possessed a ethereal beauty Miranda could not name.

**They're not beautiful in a Hollywood type way,** Miranda thought to herself. **They are willowy and ageless, somehow.** Their eyes were wise and ancient, their gestures delicate and graceful. The men moved light as cats, the women seemed to float, barely touching the ground. There was no awkwardness, no spilling of wine or voices raised in raucous laughter; only a subdued murmur of easy conversation. After awhile, the novelty wore off and Miranda began to get bored.

**How long do dinners last here?** she thought exasperated. The food was light and delicious but without anyone to talk to, and with people continually stealing looks at her, she felt on display. Snagging a glass of what she suspected was wine from a passing server, she downed it in one gulp, enjoying the warmth. It was over quickly, however, and Miranda sighed in boredom.

Sam looked up when he heard the sigh and noticed Miranda sitting with her chin in hand, looking rather unhappy.

**Maybe she misses her home,** he thought sadly. **Maybe she had little ones and a man waiting for her somewhere.** Determined to cheer her up, Sam wracked his brain for ways to communicate. She had learned their names easily enough and a few words- eat, sleep, lavatory, though they were heavily accented.

**That's what I'll do! I'll teach her to speak, or my name isn't Samwise Gamgee!** he thought excitedly and turned to get Miranda's attention.

"Well miss, I'm not sure where you came from or why you're here, but Master Elrond doesn't seem to think you're a threat and he surely knows about those things, so I thought maybe I could try and y'know, teach you how to speak." Sam said earnestly, then realized she had no idea what he was saying. She watched him and smiled apologetically, shrugging slightly.

"Alright then. Let's see." Sam sat thoughtfully for a moment, his brow furrowed, then brightened. He picked up her wine goblet and pointed to it while saying "glass" slowly and emphatically. "Glass!" he said.

Miranda watched him for a moment, unsure of what he wanted. Was she not supposed to drink? **Maybe women aren't allowed to drink here, like in one of those countries on TV, ** she thought nervously. But that didn't seem to be his point. Again he indicated the glass and said, "Glass."

Deciding to take a chance, Miranda repeated the strange word, "G-glass?" she said softly. Sam smiled and nodded happily. "Glass!" she repeated more confidently. Sam was grinning by now and picked up a fork.

"Fork!" he said.

"Fork!" she repeated. One by one, they went through the eating utensils over and over until she could name them quickly and confidently. By now, Miranda had realized what Sam was doing.

**Eating utensils are all well and good, but probably aren't going to be much help. I need to learn the entire verb structure.** Deciding to take a chance, she made eating notions with her fork and used the infinitive form she knew.

"Miranda to eat," she said, looking at Sam. He looked at her quizzically and then said hesitantly,

"Miranda eats."

"Miranda eats!" she said quickly and then pointed at him. "Sam eats!" He nodded and she continued, searching for the forms. "Miranda and Sam eats!" With a dawning understanding, Sam corrected her:

"Miranda and Sam eat. I eat." He said pointing at himself and emphasizing the word 'I'. "You eat." He said, indicating Miranda and emphasizing 'you'. "We eat." Miranda caught on and nearly crowed with delight at her new understanding.

"I. You. We." She repeated, rolling the strange words around on her tongue. Thankfully, the language structure included separate personal pronouns! She snagged another glass of wine and toasted Sam. Unbeknownst to them, Legolas and the Hobbits had been watching with undisguised interest and now moved from the upper dais to their table.

"She's talken'," Pippin said gleefully, plopping down at the table and upsetting several glasses. He'd clearly had quite a few tastes of the Elvish brew himself and was grinning madly. Legolas also had had several glasses. Although it hadn't affected him nearly as much as Pippin, he was not used to the Rivendell potency, and was more loquacious than normal.

"You're teaching her Westron?" he said, slightly arrogantly.

"Yes," Sam answered, uncertainly. The Elf, like all Elves, intimidated him with his elegance and commanding presence.

"It's a rather....common language, wouldn't you say?" Legolas said, smiling slightly. Sam was confused. It felt as though Legolas was making fun of him, yet the Elf had never been anything but kind before.

"Well....it's called the 'Common Language'...."Sam trailed off, looking at his hands. Maybe Legolas was right. Who was he to think he could teach? He was naught but a lowly gardener. Sam smiled sadly and said. "Maybe you're right," and prepared to leave when Pippin butted in abruptly.

"Common? Common? Are ye callin our beloved speech 'common'?" he cried indignantly. "At least we....err....." he stuttered and thought for a moment. "At least we don't have.....ermm....Hey! At least WE don't have pointy-ears!" he finished triumphantly.

"Aye!" joined Merry. "At least we don't have pointy-ears! An' whas more-" he slurred, "Whas more is....we LIKE Westron!" Sam brightened at the support of his friends.

"Aye! We like Westron. If it's good enough for Hobbits, it's good enough for anybody!"he cried. Legolas blinked in surprise at the sight of the three indignant Halflings. He realized his he had been showing off like a young Elf-lad trying to impress an Elf-lass and bowed his head in apology.

"Please accept my apologies, I did not mean to insult you and your tongue. It was a poor choice of words." He smiled gently and the three Hobbits immediately smiled back and forgot the argument.

Miranda, sensing the tension, had been unsure of what brought it on and was surprised at how quickly it passed. The rest of the night was spent laughing, drinking and repeating various words. Legolas was surprised to find himself smiling widely and often. He was unused to the exuberance exhibited by the Elves and found their and Miranda's excitement as intoxicating as the wine he'd been drinking. He felt warm and.... He stopped suddenly and realized the strange emotion. He was happy. For so long he'd been in an emotionless state of easy contentment, and then the sadness and anger of the War of the Ring, he had all but forgotten what happiness felt like. He watched Miranda laugh at something Pippin said and felt a tightening in his chest, noting her easy smile and bright eyes. When she looked at him, she looked not with the hesitance and far-removed admiration of a human woman, nor with the kind, but indifferent look of an Elf. Instead she looked at him as an equal and smiled at him often. He noticed her watching him and returned her smile, slowly, imagining the corners of his mouth creaking like Dwarven door hinges, rusty with disuse.

**Yum.** Miranda thought to herself, sleepily, as Legolas smiled at her. **It is simply not possible for human to look that sexy while wearing leggings!** The thought struck her and she jerked upright bodily and pointed to herself, then to Aragorn, nodding, saying "We." Then she pointed to the Hobbits and shook her head using the plural, "Not you. Not Legolas. Not Gimli." And continued, trying to get the word for their different races.

Legolas smiled again, enjoying the way she mispronounced his name.

"Elf!" Miranda cried, pointing at Legolas and giggling.

`Huh. Why's 'ee swayin like that?` She said drunkenly in English. Suddenly the Lady Arwen's face appeared before her saying something about bed.

"Yes. Bed." Miranda said, standing up. **Hah!** she thought. **Westron is easy-peasy!**she grinned. And promptly passed out.