Disclaimer: (Sorry, I forgot this last time . . .) None of these characters belong to me, but to one very talented man, J. R. R. Tolkien.
Ch. 7
WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE
Elrond stood upon a balcony overlooking the grounds. He watched as the child made her way across the grass toward a worn path, but was intercepted along the way by a tall elf. He talked with her.
"Find Mithrandir," he spoke softly. "Tell him she is awake."
The young elfmaiden nodded and ran softly from the room.
Elrond stood there silently, raised a delicate eyebrow when the child sat heavily upon the ground in, what seemed to him, fits of laughter. The elf knelt worriedly beside her. Moments later, the two turned and made their way back toward the Last Homely House.
"Master Elrond."
Elrond turned to find Gandalf standing in an open archway behind him. He turned back around. "She is awake," he said softly.
Gandalf nodded and moved to stand next to the half-elf. He rested his staff against the wall.
"Have you spoken with her?"
Gandalf shook his head. "I came to seek your counsel first, Master Elrond."
Elrond was taken aback, but he showed no sign of it. "What is it that troubles you, Gandalf?"
"I have spoken with Morgainne," was all the wizard said.
Elrond nodded. "Many of times you have. I know what you would say, Gandalf. You have already spoken to the others at the council of my brethren."
"No, Master Elrond," Gandalf said sharply, "Not of this."
Elrond faced Gandalf. "Indeed?"
"I have spoken to no one of this. Save Morgainne and one other, I am the only one who knows of it. Yet, I alone understand its danger." From the depths of his gray robes, Gandalf produced a thick book. "Morgainne brought it with her, though she swears she never read it."
"Morgainne has returned?" Elrond asked, at the moment ignoring the object in the wizard's hand. "Where is she? It has been long since I have seen her and I would learn of the world she lived in. Where is she?"
"With Legolas, for the moment," Gandalf spoke irritably, dismissing the matter. "Here, look at this!"
Elrond took it from the wizard. He frowned at the cover. "The writing is strange. But--Yes, I can read it, I think. It says: 'The Lord . . . the Lord of the Rings.' " Elrond's eyes widened as the words rolled off his tongue. He looked in alarm at the wizard. "Gandalf, what is this?"
"I know not for certain," Gandalf spoke slowly. "But Morgainne has heard the child speak of it, and its contents--"
Elrond gestered down to the yard below in a swift motion. "She has read this?"
Pain or grief--Elrond did not know which--passed swiftly across Gandalf's face. "Yes," he spoke with great reluctance.
"If this is what I think it is--" Elrond began. The half-elf shook the book at Gandalf. "This is a dangerous business, my old friend, very dangerous."
"I know," Gandalf spoke softly.
Elrond handed Gandalf the book, turned away once again. The old wizard slipped it out of sight. "War is at hand. The outcome is written in that book, I deem, though I will not read it to find out."
"Neither will I," Gandalf spoke firmly and Elrond looked up. "Let us think on this matter, you and I," he said more gently, a tinge of fatigue in his gruff voice. "I will speak with Morgainne again, for she was eager to see Legolas and I could see she had not the heart to speak of such dark matters. Later, I think, once she has seen the child well and safe and met her childhood companion once again, will she speak more freely." Gandalf took his staff from the wall. "She is very fond of the child. But fonder still, I think, of a certain Mirkwood prince."
"Indeed," Elrond frowned. "How will Thranduil take it, I wonder?"
Gandalf smiled. "Perhaps not so badly, once a certain old wizard has his say in the matter."
Elrond shook his head, but smiled fondly at him. "As I am sure he will, no matter if one wishes to hear him or not."
Gandalf chuckled. "Indeed."
Elrond laughed aloud, a rare but pleasant sound, and put an arm around the stooped old man.
"Come," he said, "Let us see this young Istari that I have long missed."
Glorfindel did not know where Samwise was, but figured the hobbit was with his old master, Bilbo Baggins. Unfortunately, neither had he a clue to where he might find the elder hobbit. Bilbo had loved all of Elrond's house and one could often spend an entire day trying to seek another out. There was no one room Bilbo preferred over another. Though the elf knew where Frodo and Merry were, he also knew that according to hobbit behavior one did not come upon another they hardly knew in a bathhouse--especially one of the opposite sex, as was the Istari. For some odd reason, the hobbits found it improper. Glorfindel shrugged. Let the hobbits keep their silly modesty then.
That left the youngest of the hobbits: Peregrin Took. Glorfindel had meet the halflings on their terrifying journey to Rivendell, but had not got to know any one of them personally. Glorfindel knew Pippin was ill, but he also knew where the wee hobbit was, and the Istari's request could not go ignored. She seemed to want to see them very much, and who was he to disappoint her.
As he led her up the steps to Pippin's room, he was suddenly reluctant. What if she saw Pippin and realized what she has done to him, saw that it was her fault?
Glorfindel remembered the Istari, he even remembered her name, though all were forbidden to use it after Sauron had taken and banished her. The elf remembered the last time she had come to Rivendell, closely following Mithrandir to. He remembered that soft kiss she had planted upon his cheek so very long ago.
"I have missed you, my friend," she had told him softly, the entire ocean in her large eyes.
"I have missed you more, my Lady," he had told her, formally, for many elves were present. "For without your bright eyes and warm smile, Rivendell has been most drear this past year."
He remembered the smile she had allowed him, the glance she had bestowed upon the other elves, and the laugh that had come. "You tease me," was all she had said.
Many had been fond of her and all and more had been torn when they had learned of her abduction. And then destruction. Gandalf had always denied it though. He had never believed she had been destroyed. But then again the old wizard had held her most dear to his heart, and he could be stubborn when the need arose.
Glorfindel was suddenly roused from his thoughts as he realized the Istari spoke to him. He looked down at her.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
The elf realized he had hesitated at the hallway leading to the hobbit's room.
"We are going to see the hobbits, aren't we, Glor-Glorfin--" she stumbled over the unfamiliar name, then swallowed it down and blushed.
Glorfindel felt a pain in his heart. She didn't remember him.
Gandalf had said as much.
"I do not know what Sauron did to her," Gandalf had told the council of elves, the evening they had found her and the hobbit unconscious upon the grass, accompanied by the unfortunate Took. Elrond, Glorfindel himself, and others of the elf's household were there, even a light-haired elf prince from Mirkwood. Glorfindel did not recall his name. "I am merely thankful he did not destroy her." There was a murmur of agreement. "Why he did not, I know not, though perhaps . . ." He had trailed of then, reluctant to voice a suspicion long held in his heart. "I doubt very much that she will be the same," he added mournfully. "I fear she will not remember us, nor the days of old. If Sauron did nothing else to her, he did this, I am certain. Tell her nothing when she wakes, but be kind to her. Let me speak with her first, and find out what I may."
"It's Glorfindel, my Lady," he said with a forced smile.
She nodded. "You can call me Apryl."
"Yes, Lady."
The girl frowned.
"Follow me," he said and Apryl did as he bid.
There was no door to the room once they came to it, but merely an opening in the wall. The two entered.
Apryl looked around expectantly, but as her gaze fell upon a still form lying in bed, a confused frown marred her features. She stepped forward hesitantly.
Glorfindel noted the look. "Forgive me, Lady, but I am uncertain where the others are at the moment. Master Peregrin was the only one whose physical activities have been limited of late." He still didn't understand why she sought the hobbits, nor how she knew about them. Perhaps Frodo had said more than was necessary when he had found her.
Apryl stopped suddenly and turned. "Pippin?" she said in confusion. She turned back to the hobbit. "But isn't this--I thought . . ." she walked forward again, until she came to the bed and could go no further. But this isn't right. She saw the blisters and scars on his face--ruinous scars. Frodo had never had such . . . but neither had any of the other hobbits. The elf was right though: it wasn't Frodo lying in the bed. But how could it be Pippin? Pippin had never been hurt . . . he had never had scars.
He was curled in upon himself; in a small ball of pain and misery.
The image flashed through her consciousness unbidden. It came, though, and it was enough. She remembered.
"What have I done?" she whispered, horrified.
Pippin moaned and stirred. His eyes cracked open ever so slightly, and she saw, for the first time in her life, the sharp gray eyes of Peregrin Took. They focused on her and she saw that they seemed shadowed. Behind her, Apryl felt Glorfindel shift but she did not look at him. She couldn't take her eyes of the savaged face.
The elf stepped forward with a glass of red liquid. "Here, Master Took," he said gently, "Drink this."
With the elf's help, Pippin struggled to a sitting position and drank the wine greedily. Glorfindel chuckled. "Careful, careful," he chided lightly and, reluctantly, the hobbit slowed. With a satisfied hiccup, Pippin handed over the glass and fell, exhausted back in the soft bed. Droplets of sweat formed on his brow.
Glorfindel looked from the hobbit to the Istari, then clearing his throat delicately, he announced, "I think I should go fetch Mithrandir--or Gandalf, as you so name him. I shall be back soon." He dipped his head in Apryl's direction, "My Lady," and he turned and left.
Gandalf, Apryl thought as she watched him go. But the wonderment of the name vanished as she felt dark, tired eyes upon her. She put her hands in the pocket of her coat, fiddled nervously with several items. Taking a deep breath, she turned her gaze to the wounded hobbit. His head was tilted at a slight angle, and he watched her sleepily, as if he sought something . . . a memory, perhaps. Or a dream. She seemed familiar to him, somehow.
Apryl bit her lip. Now that she was here, alone, seeing a hobbit before her, she did not know what to do, did not know how to react. Perhaps it would have been different had he not bore the scars and beaten-look that he now held. She had always imagined meeting the hobbits as wonderful and beyond comparison. But it wasn't, somehow, for she had never suspected to do something . . . to hurt one of them. For that is what she had done. She did not remember how, nor why, but she knew. She knew, and that was all that mattered.
Both watched the other . . . and neither spoke a word.
The shadows kept creeping before his eyes and it was becoming extremely difficult to stay focused on any one thing. Especially the girl. She was like the shadows. At least, she blended in exceedingly well with them.
"M-my name's Peregrin," he said finally, noting with some irritation that, in his own ears, his words slurred together.
"I know," she said softly.
He wanted to ask her how, but the effort was too great. It seemed his tongue had other ideas--like lying still and doing nothing. What did that blasted elf give me? he wondered angrily, images of the girl swimming before him. He wished she would say something.
Pippin breathed deeply, forced his eyes open, hoping the shadows would dissolve. They didn't.
"Are you--are you who Cousin Frodo was sent for?" Suddenly there was two of her. Pippin blinked several times and the two bodies merged.
She was silent a moment and then a desperate look came over her. "I don't know. Is he well?"
The young hobbit was suddenly alarmed. He struggled to sit up--to demand of her what she meant by 'is he well?'--but as he did blackness suddenly slammed into him, full force. With a moan, it swallowed him wholly.
He slid sideways, too far, and Apryl cried out and dove for the hobbit as he crashed to the floor. She caught him halfway down by the left arm, but the grip was awkward and, instead of releasing her hold, was dragged down with him.
The two landed in a heap of arms, legs, and sheets. She disentangled them as best she could before she was able to catch her breath and look down at the hobbit. She bit her lip, for he looked horribly pale. But what caused the tears, the ache in her heart, were the disfiguring scars caused by blisters and fire and--she knew now--magic. She felt the insides of her gut twist and writhe.
Tentatively, Apryl touched his cheek, though her hand snapped back as though she had been scorched.
"What have I done?" Truly she did not understand. How did she cause this young hobbit to look like he had been consumed by fire? Never had Tolkien talked of such. It must be her; something to do with her being here.
She still couldn't believe she was in Middle-earth, not even with a small hobbit's head lying in her lap. She touched his curls.
"I am sorry, Pippin." Whatever it was she had done, she knew it would hold greater consequences than mere scars on the face--though God knew that was horrible enough. Perhaps he would never marry because of this. Perhaps his hobbitmaiden would find him less attractive and so would never stop to talk with him as she might have done before. Was that not the way? If the outside appearance wasn't satisfactory, the chance greatly slimmed of any love blossoming? Apryl prayed it was not so.
Be strong, my falcon.
That is how Gandalf found them. The hobbit youth on the floor in the young Istari's arms. She rocked him gently and spoke to him softly, and the old wizard saw Pippin slept more soundly than he had in a long while.
Glorfindel lifted the young hobbit, though the child seemed loath to release him. He covered Pippin, whose flesh had grown hot to the touch.
"Come," Gandalf said to the girl, who had not moved from her secluded spot on the floor. She looked up at him and the elf thought she looked as if she were in a waking-dream. Slowly, she got to her feet and followed.
Frodo and Merry ran first to Apryl's room and, when they found her bed empty, went to Pippin's.
"Where is she?!" Frodo asked breathlessly, as the two hobbits stumbled into their cousin's room to find none but a sleeping Pippin and a tall elfmaiden. She looked up from dabbing Pippin with a cool cloth.
Frodo stuttered an apology, realizing who it was that stood before him. "L-lady Arwen," he gasped, "f-forgive me."
She smiled at him kindly. "I see you are well, Master Frodo."
He nodded. "Yes." Frodo had not seen the Lady Arwen since he had awoken for the first time in Rivendell. Gandalf had said she had helped her father heal him. He knew it for the truth; for it seemed to him he had dreamt of her. Or perhaps it was him floating in and out of the waking world.
"It is good to see you again, Master Meriadoc," she said, spying Merry hanging in Frodo's shadow.
"And you, Lady," Merry said.
She smiled and the hobbit blushed.
"You seek the child?"
Both hobbits nodded; their curls bounced.
"She is with Mithrandir."
Frodo sighed. "Then we shan't see her for awhile."
Arwen laughed. "No, I suspect you won't."
"Is Pippin well?" Merry asked, spying his cousin.
Arwen frowned. "He had a mishap," she said, "It was from excitement, I deem. But it was small and shan't have any lasting consequences. He needs rest is all." She looked at them. "He has already met your friend."
"Apryl?" Frodo asked in surprise.
"Is that what you call her?"
"That is her name," Frodo said.
The Lady Arwen frowned darkly. "That is what they call her." The two hobbits frowned in confusion. "It would be wise, my friends, to not call her that any more."
"Why?" demanded Merry. Then, remembering to whom he spoke, stammered, "M-milady."
Arwen sighed sadly, but said only, "Speak to Gandalf of this, my small friends. He may answer you your curious thoughts."
* * * * *
Morgainne had fallen asleep in the chair unintentionally.
That morning, she had returned home. She had talked with the wizard Gandalf briefly, giving him the book she had been able to confiscate from Apryl's home before she left. The wizard had not been pleased.
"Why did you take this?" he demanded, holding the book up.
"I thought you might use it," she told him.
"Use it? Use it!?" he cried in disbelief, tossing the book to the ground in disgust. "This is not a game, Morgainne."
"I know that!" she retorted, suddenly angry. "But you yourself have said it, Gandalf. We are at the brink of destruction. Should Sauron defeat us . . ."
"Yes," the wizard hissed, "then our world is doomed." He turned from the elfmaiden and paced the room. "It has crossed your mind, child? Her world is alive and well, and so you deem ours must be, too."
"Of course," Morgainne said scornfully. "Have you not concluded the same? We know only because of Apr--" Morgainne choked on the name. "The child, the Istari," she said. "Sauron cast her into a time far into the future. For such a place to exist surely we must defeat him."
Gandalf whirled on her. "Aha!" he jabbed his staff at her and she stumbled back several paces. "My dear Morgainne, do you not see the danger already? Sauron did great damage by sending her there in the first place. Look at the confidence this thing gives us!" He gestured wildly at the book. "
"Not the book, Gandalf," Morgainne shook her head. "Your charge," the elf said softly, then added with sudden confidence: "Apryl."
Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "Do not call her that," he warned.
"It is her name."
"No. You know her name, Morgainne."
Morgainne shook her head. "I never knew her Before, Gandalf. To me, she is not an Istari but a human girl hardly seventeen. I will call her Apryl," she said defiantly. "For that is all I have ever known."
Gandalf had gone terribly white at those words. "Get out," was all he said.
Morgainne realized she had gone to far. "Gandalf, I meant no disrespect--"
"Get out."
"She does not remember you nor any of the others. All she has ever known is Earth. You must understand--"
"No, Morgainne," Gandalf spoke no louder than a whisper. "You are the one who needs to understand. The child is of Middle-earth."
The elf frowned but stilled her tongue from further protest. "I would see her," she said at last.
Gandalf sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Go, then," he allowed. "We shall talk later."
Morgainne turned to leave but the wizard spoke suddenly, halting her footsteps.
"I am not angry with you, child," Gandalf said and she turned back to face him. "It is just . . . hard, so very hard."
Morgainne nodded in understanding. "I know, Mithrandir. I do not begrudge you. But it is hard on her as well. Or, will be, once all is laid clear. There is much to explain for . . . on both ends."
Gandalf nodded sadly. "Indeed. I dread it very much."
Already, Morgainne regretted her earlier words. "Don't. She's understanding. She copes well."
The wizard nodded and his eyes glazed over, as though he was in centuries long forgotten by many--or at least, by one. "I know."
Morgainne left Gandalf to better days--ones that had always dawned so very bright and clear--and went to find her friend.
She had found her. Apryl was asleep and would not be woken. The elf had seated herself near at hand, in hopes she would awake, but the strenuous journey back home soon got the better of her and she found herself drifting off into a dreamworld all her own.
She dreamt of many things: people she had met and befriended but would never see again; dark shadows that rose up to take the form of one terrible Dark Lord; days long forgotten that held no sorrow nor grief, when she played most carefree with a close friend who was dear to her heart. His music came to her late in her dream and she awoke, only to find that it was not the imaginings of a home-sick mind, but it was as true as anything.
Laughter, too, came to her.
She blinked the sleep from her eyes and looked around excitedly, but before she could fully take in the entire room, slim but well-muscled arms enveloped her from behind. A voice, soft as anything, whispered in her ear:
"She is getting slow, I think."
Morgainne could not keep the grin from her features, even when she slipped from his arms as easily as if he had not been there at all. She stood before him and he straightened.
"Am I indeed?" she asked.
He raised an eyebrow at her and grinned wickedly. "Perhaps she wants to redeem herself?" he asked casually.
"Do I need to?"
"I suppose not," the elf said, waving his hand and turning away, as if he was bored with the conversation already. "She is only common."
Her eyes narrowed. "Indeed?"
He turned to face her again and she could see the laughter in his blue eyes as easily as she could see the sunlight filtering through the glassless windows. "Yes," he said, a haughty smirk coming uneasily to his features. She wondered if he had been practicing that look. If so, he was as poor at this as he was at playing that silly little flute of his, for neither fit him at all.
"Very well," she said, turning nonchalantly away. Without warning: "Let us play, then," and she ran.
She heard his laughter, a sound she had never forgotten, not even in the dismal plane of Earth where all familiarity had seemed so very far away. It had faded at times, yes, but never had she wholly forgotten it. Barely, she could hear his footfalls behind her. The wooden floors of Elrond's home passed away beneath her feet, replaced by a great expanse of woodland.
"Catch me if you can . . . my princling."
*****
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