Disclaimer:  I do not claim this world for my own, nor its people.  I only write so that others might enjoy a little more of Tolkien's world.  I hope I do him a small amount of justice.

Ch. 12

SOMETHING MORE

            It would make sense that a man such as Tolkien existed, if Middle-earth was indeed real.  And surely it was, for was Apryl not standing upon its very soil, staring up into its very sun?  Supposedly, The Lord of the Rings was a fictionous story created by a British professor, J. R. R. Tolkien, in the early twentieth century.  Or so, everyone--Apryl included--had thought.  Until she had found herself standing in a world filled with elves, dwarves and hobbits, Apryl had had no reason to doubt this logical reasoning.  Even when Middle-earth had become a reality, she had never really thought beyond the simplicity that it was nothing but a parallel universe mirroring her own Earth.  It was a world floating around in a universe of nothingness.  No explanations required; it just was.

            But Middle-earth was not a parallel universe; it was Earth in an age long forgotten.  Hobbits, dwarves, and elves were not magical, make-believe characters found only by opening a door to another universe (or a man's imaginings), they were real; people found by opening the door to a forgotten past, nothing more.

            It just so happened that one man's recordings survived eons upon eons, was pasted down from generation to generation until one man--one John Ronald Reuel Tolkien--found the scribblings of a hundredfold great grandfather, was fascinated by the writings and published them so a fantasy-hungry population might enjoy the hidden wonders in one man's writings. 

            Did it ever occur to J. R. R. Tolkien that his ancestor had lived in a realm that did not consist wholly of humans?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Apryl didn't know, merely realized that a small portion of history had made its way through time, untouched, until it was placed into the right hands, which gave the priceless information to the world.  Mayhap, in hopes that something would be remembered of the Forgotten Folk?

            Apryl didn't know.

            "Just Tolkien?" she wondered aloud, realizing a moment after that the question might appear a tad bit rude. 

            He laughed.  "And what else would you have it be, milady?" he asked, not unkindly.  "I could say the same to you, you know, and many others besides.  Of what I have heard, you are known as Atira and naught else.  Gandalf as Gandalf, and Lord Elrond as Elrond."

            "Halfelven," she corrected, before she could stop herself.  "Elrond Halfelven."

            He laughed.  "So it is.  But that is not really two names, but a matter of who he is.  A description you could say, though I wouldn't recommend it.  It is a rare case for elves to take up two names.  Rarely they do, as humans and hobbits have the odd habit of doing."

            "Your human," she pointed out.  Why is it that your name--your first name, as it would seem--carried generations? she wondered curiously, though she did not speak her thoughts aloud.

            "Indeed, I am.  But so, too, am I a historian."  He grinned.  "Tolkien the Historian, isn't that enough for you, Lady Atira?"

            She returned his smile, a trace of amusement in her eyes.  "Yes."

            "Good--" he began, but stopped suddenly and tilted his head at a slight angle, as if listening to something only he could hear.

            "Is something the m--"

            He held up a hand.  A smile slowly alighted his face, but it suddenly sobered and a rough frown marred his handsome features.  "I do not appreciate," he said aloud, in a surprisingly commanding tone, "being spied upon.  And I would highly recommend that whosoever is doing the peeping show himself right away!"

            Apryl frowned in confusion, glancing around uncertainly.  She peeked around Tolkien's lean, but well-muscled frame.  She saw nothing, but heard something instead.  A snort, it sounded like.

            "Spying, indeed!" someone huffed indignantly.  "You have quite the imagination, Tolkien my lad."  The low-hanging leaves of a tree parted reluctantly, revealing to both man and child a path hidden in its dense greenery.  Upon the path, stood a hobbit.  A scowl marred the round face--a face touched with old age but not totally devote of youthfulness either. "I thought I'd find you here," the hobbit said, pushing the hanging branches aside and walking into the light of an ascending sun.

            "You would, wouldn't you?" Tolkien spoke lightly, and then added as an afterthought, "The way you snoop."

            The hobbit glared at the man and it wasn't until right then that Apryl realized there was no anger in his eyes.  In fact, it seemed a sparkle of laughter was hidden in the hobbit's dark orbs. 

            A smile came to her lips at the realization.

            She caught the halfling's gaze and the old hobbit's features broke into a kind smile that was much more becoming than the frown he had discarded.

            "Well," he said with a light sigh, "This must be the young lass that my Frodo collected."

            At her nod:

            "Bilbo Baggins at your service, my dear."

            Apryl felt a bit light-headed.  Bilbo.

            Within two days--less time even--she'd met Peregrin, Meriadoc, Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Aragorn, numerous elves and humans and dwarves, Tolkien (who she hadn't known--in a sense--existed), and now Bilbo.  It wasn't only that but none of the introductions had been planned nor been truly proper introductions at all, but had been spontaneous things that happened quite swiftly and unexpectedly.  She'd already laughed hysterically at one occasion and cried herself to sleep in another.

            But what can one expect when one appears in a supposedly nonexistent world?

            "It's an honor," was all she could manage.

            Frodo came to his cousin's room quite out of breath.  First glance proved him doomed to disappointment, for none were in the room save a sleeping Pippin, his soft snores barely heard above the crackling fire.  He scanned the room for a second time as he walked within and spied a discarded blanket resting before the hearth.  A wooden stool sat near at hand, a pipe resting upon its smooth surface.  A closer inspection proved Frodo correct in his suspicions--the pipe belonged to Merry.

            But where his cousin was he had not a clue--hadn't seen him since the night before. 

            Frodo sighed in submission, finally accepting the fact that he would never see Apryl.  He seated himself upon the stool, taking up the pipe as he did so, and his eyes fell to the crackling flames.  He found himself lost in their fiery depths.

            Something cold and hard pressed against his chest, as though reminding him of its presence.  Frodo barely suppressed a shudder.  He rested his hand over it, feeling the hard lump through his garments, before a tug and a pull from something unseen got the better of him and he pulled the golden Ring from under his shirt.  He looked at it for long moments, the fire making it twinkle in a hellish sort of way--in a fascinating sort of way.

            "Frodo?"

            The hobbit started, dropped the Ring back under his shirt--hiding it from view.  He turned.

            "Pippin," he said.  He smiled weakly, as if guilty of some crime.

            Peregrin sat on the elven bed, regarding his cousin suspiciously.

            "How are you feeling?"

            Pippin did not answer, but continued to look Frodo over.

            The older hobbit got to his feet and came to his cousin's bedside, letting shadowed thoughts of the Ring vanish.  He peered at his cousin, not liking the scars that marred his youthful face.

            "Are you alright?" Frodo asked.

            Pippin frowned.  I could ask you the same, Cousin.  But, for once, he kept his opinion to himself.  "Aye," he nodded, and his eyes fell to two vacant spots before the fire. 

            "Where are Apryl and Merry?" he wondered lightly but got a reaction from his cousin quite unexpected.

            With a sigh--and something akin to a whimper--Frodo let his knees buckle beneath him and fell to the floor with an undignified thud.

            "Frodo!" Pippin blurted, and scrambled to the side of his bed--a very large bed, mind, it being made for elves and not hobbits--and peered over.  "Frodo?" he called tentatively.  Frodo stared up at him with unblinking blue eyes.  "Frodo, what is it?  What's wrong?"

            It seemed the hobbit saw nothing--nothing, that is, visible to anyone else in that room, for his thoughts were far away.  But his mouth moved and he spoke in a very tired manner.  "You always were one to point out my misfortunes."

            Pippin crawled from the bed and leaned over his cousin.  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, honestly.

            Frodo sighed, "I guess I'm just tired."  Blinking, his eyes came into focus.  He smiled crookedly.  "Traveling to and from worlds is very taxing, Pip."

            Pippin smiled hesitantly, knowing there was more bothering Frodo than his cousin was letting on.  But he said naught of it.  "Well, I should say so, Cousin,"--he reached down and helped Frodo to his feet--"though I wouldn't mind trying it one of these days.  Do you think Gandalf would let me?"

            Frodo laughed, let Pippin support him for a moment.  "Not on your life--or more appropriately, his life."

            Pippin sighed.  "No, I suppose not."  But there was laughter in his eyes.

            Frodo grinned.  "Get back in bed, Pippin; you're ill, remember?"

            Pippin glared at the bed.  "I'm getting to despise that thing," he declared, but grimaced in pain not a moment later.  He sighed and shook his head.  "But I suppose it's not so very bad," he added, with not a whole lot of conviction in his voice.

            "Does it hurt very much?" Frodo wondered, as his cousin crawled back into bed.

            Pippin eyed his fellow hobbit for a moment, as if weighing his worth, and then, slowly, nodded.  "It sometimes feels like there's a fire within me consuming me from inside out.  It hurts a terrible lot."

            Frodo frowned.  "Have you told Lord Elrond?"  At Pippin's shake of the head, his frown deepened.  "Why?" he demanded.

            "Oh, Frodo," Pippin sighed, "Don't you think Lord Elrond has enough to deal with, what with the Ring coming here and all?  For if Gandalf's so concerned over it must hold some value, mustn't it?  And Apryl--there's something about her that I can't quite place, but regardless, she came from another world.  Another world, Frodo.  Compare that with several insignificant burns."  He shook his head.  "No, I haven't told Lord Elrond, but can you blame me?"

            "Yes, I can blame you," Frodo snapped.  "Pippin, you're not thinking this through.  These burns are not insignificant, as you so name them.  They're not normal, Pip."

            "Burns are burns, Frodo," Pippin shrugged.  "And even so, Apryl healed me and--"

            Frodo scowled.  "Listen to me.  They are not normal.  Gandalf said--"  He stopped.  "What'd you say?"

            "I said 'burns are burns.'  Mine aren't special, Frodo, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation for the pain I'm feeling."  Suddenly, he frowned.  "What did Gandalf say?"

            Frodo shook his head.  "No, after that.  What did you say about Apryl healing you?"

            Pippin opened his mouth, blinked, then cursed himself.  He hadn't meant to say anything about that.  The whole matter in itself made very little sense but, regardless, it was something that Pippin didn't like to talk about.  That place had frightened him terribly so and, even though she had come to him there; it was all too fresh in his nightmare-filled dreams.  The nightmares--he refused to tell a soul of those, too, for such things only alarmed hobbit-children, not grown hobbits such as himself. 

            "When I was real sick, Apryl healed me," he said, nonchalantly, hoping Frodo would drop the matter.  He didn't.

            "But she still slept," Frodo argued, "when your fever broke.  She couldn't possibly . . ." his voice trailed off as remembrance dawned on his face.  Frodo looked at his younger cousin.  "After your fever broke, Gandalf told Merry and I that if it hadn't been for Apryl you would have died," he said, faltering at the last when Pippin's face drained of color.  "It wasn't fire that hurt you, Pip, it was magic.  And Apryl healed you."

            "I--I don't understand.  If it was magic that did this to me," he held up his hands, the scarred blisters contrasting sharply with his tanned skin, "then Apryl must have healed me with . . ."

            "With magic," Frodo finished.  "But human's don't wield magic--can't wield magic."

            "Gandalf," Pippin said, but Frodo shook his head of dark curls.

            "Gandalf's not mortal."

            "You don't know that," Pippin argued.  "Besides, we've never seen him use magic.  Perhaps all he's good for is fireworks," he said with a shrug.  "We don't know."    

            "Gandalf's not human, Pip," Frodo said firmly.  "I know it.  Bilbo's seen Gandalf use magic and Gandalf's told me that he's used magic."

            Pippin looked at Frodo questioningly.

            "At the Ford," was all he said.

            "The White Horses," Pippin breathed and Frodo nodded.  They were silent for several moments. 

            "Gandalf wanted you to bring her for some reason, Frodo," Pippin said finally.  "I suppose that there's something more to her than any of us know, save perhaps Gandalf."

            At length Frodo nodded.  "I think you're right, Pippin.  She does seem different, somehow, though I've talked to her little enough."  He sighed.  "I should like to see her again."

            Pippin grinned smugly.  "I've seen her, and talked with her, too."

*****

            *note:  I know some of you are getting a little impatient waiting for Apryl to see Frodo again, but bear with me just a little longer.  He's coming, I swear it!