I woke up very early the next morning, out of habit. It was barely dawn
outside. I walked out to the main room in search of breakfast. Mirwold
was sitting there, alone, staring at the Legolas bookmark that Fadrornion
and Englas had left at the top of the debris-piles on the table. Someone
in their wisdom had printed some of the One Ring's evil inscription across
the top of it for no clear or apparent reason, an inscription that Mirwold
was now staring at in confusion.
"'Nazg durbatulûk. . . ash nazg'?" Obviously the meaning was lost on Mirwold, who was still trying unsuccessfully to figure out what some apparently random bits of Black Speech were doing on an otherwise Modern Earth object. "Now why does that sound so familiar?" he muttered to himself. "Ash nazg. . . ash nazg. . . Of course! 'Ash nazg ack-Boback'! My very own Ring of Power inscription. How could I forget?"
"You have an inscription on your ring, too?" I asked, despite myself.
"A secret that dirt alone can tell," nodded Mirwold seriously. "Nice to see you up at last, Candace. The porridge is re-heating in the pot over the fire."
It was at that moment that a horrible, horrible thought occurred to me. Mirwold was going to Mordor. Mordor was where Sauron lived. Sauron was looking for his ring. Mirwold was in daily contact with people who knew exactly who had it and exactly where it was going. Mirwold was not stupid. Mirwold had either figured the whole thing out by now or would do so soon. Mirwold was bad. Sauron was bad. If Mirwold found out the truth about the One Ring and told Sauron, Sauron would be able to get it back easily and cover all the lands in a second darkness. That would be really, really bad. And there was only one person who could save the world - me. At last I had found my niche, my raisin d'etre here in the crazy world of Middle Earth. I had to stop Mirwold from making it to Mordor. But first, the shopping trip.
* * *
After I had finished breakfast, or as much of it as I would ever want, Mirwold took me shopping. At first, I could hardly believe my luck. I was going to get *the dress*, the beautiful prettyprincess dress, the just reward of all good fangirls, the dress that transformed someone into a stunning elf-magnet with ice-violet eyes and long, flowing hair that flashed like red gold in the sunlight or variations thereupon. "I don't really like being pretty, or being in a pretty dress," I would say, as Legolas paddled up to Esgaroth in a canoe on a random journey from Mirkwood in search of a plot point. "Wow," Legolas would exclaim, "You're as beautiful as an elf! No, wait - more beautiful!" Meanwhile, Mirwold would realized what a complete jerk he was and vanish in a puff of smoke back to wherever it was that he came from, leaving the path clear for happy endings all around.
"Where are you going?" Mirwold demanded. "The second-hand dealer's in here." Somehow, I didn't like the sound of that.
"I thought we were going to buy a dress!" I protested.
"We are," answered Mirwold. "What, do you think they come off trees or something? You can't possibly expect me to take you to a dressmaker and have them make you one! Do you have any idea how long that would take?"
"Make my dress," I repeated slowly, as reality's cold breath sent a chill down my spine.
"Stitch by painstaking stitch. Exactly my point," said Mirwold. "Listening to you, one would think that clothing just appeared out of the air ready-made to fit. The next thing I know, you'll be asking for more than one!" I managed to force down my bitter tears of regret in silence. This was not turning out the way I had expected. I wondered how much worse it was going to get. Never tempt fate like that.
The clothing shop was cold and dark. Dim shapes of various articles of clothes could be seen hanging from the walls and in piles on tables. My eyes adjusted gradually to the sight of a grumpy little man sitting behind a counter glaring at us. He said something to me that Mirwold answered, something that prompted a skeptical snort from the man and made him no less suspicious of us. Mirwold ignored him and turned his attention to a large box that I was sure was the Middle Earth equivalent of a bargain bin. While he rummaged through the box, I turned my attention to the clothing on the walls. My dress was here somewhere, I was sure.
Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing in Esgaroth fit for an elf princess. Everything here, regardless of length, width or price, was practical. Very, very practical. In fact, if I could choose only one word to sum up Esgaroth, it would be - no, wait, two words: if I could choose two words to - well, technically three, three words to sum up Esgaroth, they would be "practical and boring." The dresses were no exception. Available in your choice of black, brown, grey, green or grey-green. There was one really nice yellow hood that I was about to try on when Mirwold snappishly informed me that it was made for a dwarf. I asked him if Esgaroth ever got second-hand elf clothing. He said that he doubted it and wouldn't buy any even if they did.
I did end up with a dress in the end, but it was a complete disappointment. Mirwold had wanted to buy the first thing that had vaguely fit me, despite my loud protests that it was ugly and I hated it. "Mortals and their fashion statements," he had sighed imperiously, "It looks fine to me."
"But I look awful in grey," I protested, "and the arms are too long."
"You can roll them up," Mirwold shrugged.
"And it's itchy and hot."
"It's wool. What do you expect?"
"Wool gives me a rash," I whined, rolling up my sleeve to expose my itchy red forearm as proof.
"Fine. We'll find something else then," snapped Mirwold. "But trust me, when you're out in the middle of nowhere freezing to death in nothing more than a little linen shift, you'll regret it."
"But we we're going to be traveling in summer," I argued. "I'll die of the heat."
It was at this point that the grumpy little man put in his two cents. Either he was throwing us out of his shop or demanding to know exactly what kind of strange, gibberish-speaking creature I was. It was difficult to tell. It took Mirwold some time to calm him back down again to a state of passive disgust, at which point the man left his counter to retreat into the back of the store. Mirwold used the opportunity to inform me that he had told the man that I was his insane cousin who had recently been kidnapped by a band of orcs and had never been the same again. "Very, very distant cousin," he added with distaste at the very idea. "But he's gone to get something that will fix all your problems."
Hope was beginning to return to me when the man returned with a shapeless beige thing that looked like a very large sack that had mysteriously sprouted arms. "There," said Mirwold, very pleased with himself. "The man says you can wear that underneath the dress so that the wool isn't directly on your skin. It was a bit too big anyway."
"I still look bad in grey."
"It's not really grey," Mirwold assured me. "It's just kind of dirty. Don't worry, they all get that way sooner or later."
"'Nazg durbatulûk. . . ash nazg'?" Obviously the meaning was lost on Mirwold, who was still trying unsuccessfully to figure out what some apparently random bits of Black Speech were doing on an otherwise Modern Earth object. "Now why does that sound so familiar?" he muttered to himself. "Ash nazg. . . ash nazg. . . Of course! 'Ash nazg ack-Boback'! My very own Ring of Power inscription. How could I forget?"
"You have an inscription on your ring, too?" I asked, despite myself.
"A secret that dirt alone can tell," nodded Mirwold seriously. "Nice to see you up at last, Candace. The porridge is re-heating in the pot over the fire."
It was at that moment that a horrible, horrible thought occurred to me. Mirwold was going to Mordor. Mordor was where Sauron lived. Sauron was looking for his ring. Mirwold was in daily contact with people who knew exactly who had it and exactly where it was going. Mirwold was not stupid. Mirwold had either figured the whole thing out by now or would do so soon. Mirwold was bad. Sauron was bad. If Mirwold found out the truth about the One Ring and told Sauron, Sauron would be able to get it back easily and cover all the lands in a second darkness. That would be really, really bad. And there was only one person who could save the world - me. At last I had found my niche, my raisin d'etre here in the crazy world of Middle Earth. I had to stop Mirwold from making it to Mordor. But first, the shopping trip.
* * *
After I had finished breakfast, or as much of it as I would ever want, Mirwold took me shopping. At first, I could hardly believe my luck. I was going to get *the dress*, the beautiful prettyprincess dress, the just reward of all good fangirls, the dress that transformed someone into a stunning elf-magnet with ice-violet eyes and long, flowing hair that flashed like red gold in the sunlight or variations thereupon. "I don't really like being pretty, or being in a pretty dress," I would say, as Legolas paddled up to Esgaroth in a canoe on a random journey from Mirkwood in search of a plot point. "Wow," Legolas would exclaim, "You're as beautiful as an elf! No, wait - more beautiful!" Meanwhile, Mirwold would realized what a complete jerk he was and vanish in a puff of smoke back to wherever it was that he came from, leaving the path clear for happy endings all around.
"Where are you going?" Mirwold demanded. "The second-hand dealer's in here." Somehow, I didn't like the sound of that.
"I thought we were going to buy a dress!" I protested.
"We are," answered Mirwold. "What, do you think they come off trees or something? You can't possibly expect me to take you to a dressmaker and have them make you one! Do you have any idea how long that would take?"
"Make my dress," I repeated slowly, as reality's cold breath sent a chill down my spine.
"Stitch by painstaking stitch. Exactly my point," said Mirwold. "Listening to you, one would think that clothing just appeared out of the air ready-made to fit. The next thing I know, you'll be asking for more than one!" I managed to force down my bitter tears of regret in silence. This was not turning out the way I had expected. I wondered how much worse it was going to get. Never tempt fate like that.
The clothing shop was cold and dark. Dim shapes of various articles of clothes could be seen hanging from the walls and in piles on tables. My eyes adjusted gradually to the sight of a grumpy little man sitting behind a counter glaring at us. He said something to me that Mirwold answered, something that prompted a skeptical snort from the man and made him no less suspicious of us. Mirwold ignored him and turned his attention to a large box that I was sure was the Middle Earth equivalent of a bargain bin. While he rummaged through the box, I turned my attention to the clothing on the walls. My dress was here somewhere, I was sure.
Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing in Esgaroth fit for an elf princess. Everything here, regardless of length, width or price, was practical. Very, very practical. In fact, if I could choose only one word to sum up Esgaroth, it would be - no, wait, two words: if I could choose two words to - well, technically three, three words to sum up Esgaroth, they would be "practical and boring." The dresses were no exception. Available in your choice of black, brown, grey, green or grey-green. There was one really nice yellow hood that I was about to try on when Mirwold snappishly informed me that it was made for a dwarf. I asked him if Esgaroth ever got second-hand elf clothing. He said that he doubted it and wouldn't buy any even if they did.
I did end up with a dress in the end, but it was a complete disappointment. Mirwold had wanted to buy the first thing that had vaguely fit me, despite my loud protests that it was ugly and I hated it. "Mortals and their fashion statements," he had sighed imperiously, "It looks fine to me."
"But I look awful in grey," I protested, "and the arms are too long."
"You can roll them up," Mirwold shrugged.
"And it's itchy and hot."
"It's wool. What do you expect?"
"Wool gives me a rash," I whined, rolling up my sleeve to expose my itchy red forearm as proof.
"Fine. We'll find something else then," snapped Mirwold. "But trust me, when you're out in the middle of nowhere freezing to death in nothing more than a little linen shift, you'll regret it."
"But we we're going to be traveling in summer," I argued. "I'll die of the heat."
It was at this point that the grumpy little man put in his two cents. Either he was throwing us out of his shop or demanding to know exactly what kind of strange, gibberish-speaking creature I was. It was difficult to tell. It took Mirwold some time to calm him back down again to a state of passive disgust, at which point the man left his counter to retreat into the back of the store. Mirwold used the opportunity to inform me that he had told the man that I was his insane cousin who had recently been kidnapped by a band of orcs and had never been the same again. "Very, very distant cousin," he added with distaste at the very idea. "But he's gone to get something that will fix all your problems."
Hope was beginning to return to me when the man returned with a shapeless beige thing that looked like a very large sack that had mysteriously sprouted arms. "There," said Mirwold, very pleased with himself. "The man says you can wear that underneath the dress so that the wool isn't directly on your skin. It was a bit too big anyway."
"I still look bad in grey."
"It's not really grey," Mirwold assured me. "It's just kind of dirty. Don't worry, they all get that way sooner or later."