Disclaimer:  I reserve no rights to this story and any characters I have "borrowed".

A/N:  Contrary to common belief, this is not the end of 'Mistake'; far from it I am afraid.  What, indeed, has been explained?  Nothing.  Poor Apryl would be in a sorry state if she was finally granted the one wish she truly desired and then never got to enjoy it to the fullest.  And Pip too, ne?  We cannot leave him as such.  Nay, my friends, this story is not finished and won't be for a very long time.  If I were you, I'd grab a nice cup of coffee (or tea, or milk, or whatever drink you might fancy [not alcohol though, I'm afraid you'd loose interest in my tale rather quickly . . . I know I would^^]), sit back, and enjoy the unfolding of this tale.

WARNING:  There is foul language in this chapter (I believe only at the beginning).  If you have a problem with this I'm afraid you'll have to take it up with Morgainne—she is rather difficult to restrain sometimes, you must understand.

Chapter 20

THE IN-BETWEEN

            The statue stood there, in the midst of the dying flowers and evergreen trees, just as tall and serene as she always had.  Her face was sorrowful, her eyes filled with pain, and Morgainne hated her.  Had her sword rested upon her hip she would of struck the woman over and over, but as it was not she did the next best thing.

            Rocks hit and bounced off the statue's white surface, sticks shattered and rained splintered shards of wood, fists struck and bled profusely.

            "Whore!" she screamed, "Fuckin' bitch!  Why didn't you protect her!?  She was yours and you let him take her, and then when we get her back--when she's finally happy again--you let her die!  Why!?  She did everything for you.  She aided those that you wept for; she offered her strength when all you offered those in pain was sympathy.  She was the one to give her heart when you merely gave tears and yet she didn't mind, she never minded, for that was your Atira . . ." she sobbed brokenly, struck the marble again and again with her pale, white-knuckled fist, ". . . that was my Apryl . . ." she sobbed ". . . and you let him take her . . . again . . ."  She sank to the ground and put her head in her hands, her tears depleted so that all she could manage were dry sobs, her body shaking savagely.

            I should have been there.  This is my fault.  How could I have done this to her? She didn't understand . . . she is my friend, whether I was sent to her or not.  She's my very best friend . . .

            Was . . . some unseen voice seemed to hiss.

            She curled up beneath the statue of Nienna, Valar of Mourning, and was sick, for her life was suddenly very bleak and without meaning.

            "Child," the wind seemed to whisper and slowly Morgainne looked up.

            "Mithrandir," she sniffed, her strength fled, having taken with it her anger.  He joined her in the cool glade, his gray robes swishing softly.  "I failed her."

            Gandalf shook his head, gazed at the statue before him.  "If any failed Atira then it was I."  His gaze fell back down to the she-elf and found that she too was looking at the statue, though her gaze was heated, bitter.  "None failed her, my dear," and she looked up at him in mild confusion.  He allowed her a comforting, if tired smile.

            "Just as her soul was dying in an Earth that was not hers," he explained, "so too could her Earthian body not live in this time, this Middle-earth as some are want to call it."  He gave a tired sort of sigh, as though something pained him but he would not voice it.  "You never knew Atira, Morgainne, merely Apryl, a misplaced child in an ungracious world.  She was born into that world; her body was of that time but her soul was not.  Her soul was dying--that was why I sent Frodo for her when I did.  Her time had run out."

            Painfully, he knelt down beside the elf and looked deep into her forest-green eyes.  "Her Earthian body was dying here, though her soul flourished, for it is among a land it knows--it is home.

            "The water did not kill Apryl, nor did you or anyone else.  Perhaps her sickness speeded the process but eventually she would have died--her body," he looked at her pointedly, "not her soul," and he spoke firmly.

            Morgainne narrowed her eyes in confusion.  "She's . . . not dead?  Is that what you are saying, Mithrandir?"

            Gandalf sat back and smiled softly.  "Indeed that is exactly what I am saying.  She is here; she is with us," he said, and Morgainne looked around as if she might see her friend.  "Her spirit is here, I can feel it, hear it." 

            Gandalf frowned suddenly.  "But her magic is weak.  She'll need time to build a physical form.  But time is short, for Sauron senses her and knows she has come back."

            Slowly, realization dawned and Morgainne's eyes narrowed.

            "You are leaving soon are you not, Gandalf?" Morgainne asked suddenly.  "To cease this darkness that we all can feel.  I would come with you."

            Gandalf looked at the she-elf in surprise, then frowned.  "Nothing has been decided, I am afraid.  The council has been held off for far too long what with unexpected events.  We will hold a council, however, for there are many a great things that need to be discussed.  Legolas has traveled far from Mirkwood to plead such a case as he has not said, though I fear it is ill."  At this, Gandalf looked hard at Morgainne but she could only shrug.

            "He has told me nothing," was all she would say.

            Gandalf nodded.  "Boromir of Gondor has also come, carrying a message from the Steward I deem and so too have a handful of dwarves traveled far to consult with Elrond.  The times are indeed grave, Morgainne, and I believe you understand that well.  You will go before the council and make this request for there is one of us at least who must go, though I do not think it is you."

            Morgainne made as if to protest but Gandalf held up a hand and she immediately quieted.

            "I am not saying you will not go, merely that you will not be the only one.  Smaller hands than yours or mine must carry this burden but perhaps we will aid in whatever way we may."

            Morgainne did not understand the wizard's words but she said naught, for she often found the ways of the Istari queer.

            Gandalf looked at her for a moment, then spoke quietly.  "Why is it you would make such a request, child?"

            Morgainne did not hesitate.  "Sauron has overstepped his bounds one to many times for my liking.  He has done her more harm than I will allow and I deem he should pay."

            "And you believe you are the one to do this?"

            "No," Morgainne shook her head.  "I know I am not the one.  But I would follow that one and see that it is done, aid if I might, but I go along only to see this satisfaction.  I would see him defeated."

            "Why, child?"

            "You know why, Mithrandir," Morgainne whispered softly. 

            Gandalf sighed.  "Yes, I suppose I do."

            "I have not known her long--I understand this--but she is my friend and he did her a great wrong, did me a great wrong, and I will see to it that he is punished."

            The old wizard rubbed his eyes and nodded.  "She is not dead to us," he said, "Not yet.  But if Sauron has his way about it then she will be."  Morgainne looked at him with concern.  "Leave me, child, for I must find her and help her.  Go know and find the hobbits.  See to the youngest . . ."

            Morgainne nodded.  "Peregrin, isn't it?"

            "Aye.  Go to him and try to ease his pain.  Explain what has happened, but only to him, for . . ." Gandalf struggled for the right words ". . . she has not 'touched' the others."  Not yet, at any rate, as I fear she may, but he said this only to himself.

            "Watch him closely.  If he is well, then so too is she."

            Morgainne frowned.  "I do not understand."

            "Neither do I," he said, allowing her a tired smile.  "Atira always did have the habit of doing as she pleased."  He was quiet for a moment and then, hesitantly, said, "I think she was lonely and found herself a friend."

            Morgainne flinched.  Gandalf patted her on the arm and smiled kindly.  "Go now, child.  I have a job to do."

            The she-elf nodded and stood.  "May the Father aid your efforts, Mithrandir," she said quietly and left.

            Gandalf watched her go until the shadows swallowed her up and he could see her no more.  "May He aid us all."

            And with that final phrase resting heavy upon his heart, the wizard took a deep breath and closed his eyes . . . .

            Once again, she thought with a sigh, I am alone.  But perhaps it was not such a horrible thing for she often found herself alone.  It wasn't something new and it wasn't something that she would have to cope with for she had long ago gotten used to being on the "outer circle."  It was just, well, since arriving in Middle-earth she hadn't been ignored.  People actually talked to her and seemed to enjoy it, too.  They not only talked to her but with her, and listened to what she had to say in return.  Pippin was very good at that, listening to her, and the idea sort of surprised her.  She figured he'd be the sort to talk your ear off. 

            With all this attention given to her a whole new world was opened up for her to test and explore.  She was no longer watching from the sidelines but was amongst the crowd and active in the events.  And she found that she enjoyed it.

            But now, now she was once again alone.

            It's not so very bad, she decided, though her gaze would often stray toward the empty space to her left.  At least your home, Pip.  I'll be along shortly, she figured rationally.  This world doesn't seem to hold life for very long.  I've returned home before, I'll return again. 

            She smiled wryly.  "Knock on wood."  As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted speaking them aloud and cringed as her voice echoed about as though she were in a large empty room or a tunnel of some sort.

            She glanced around nervously, getting the impression that the world disapproved of her disrupting its eternal silence.  She would have apologized had she thought there was someone out there to hear how sorry she was.  Almost instantly, however, she regretted the thought, for anyone out there could not be someone she would want to meet.

            Better to be alone than to be with . . . with something else, she decided.  Moments passed and she peered around, noting with quiet apprehension how silent this world actually was.  There was not a sound.  No whispering wind, no rustle of leaves, no birds singing or bugs buzzing.  At this point, Apryl would have even welcomed the sounds of her own world--the rumbling of cars, the chatter of television, the shouts and yells of thoughtless, in-too-much-of-a-hurry humans.

            Careful what you wish for, Apryl chided herself, it might just come true.

            The thought wasn't such a terrible one she realized, for there was indeed some aspects of her own world that she missed a lot.  Her mother for one.  She couldn't help it.  Though they often had there differences Apryl had long ago realized how lucky she actually was.  She and her mother did not have the typical mother-daughter relationship.  They could confide in one another and they oftentimes did.

            I hope she knows I'm alright, she thought sadly.  I hope she's alright.  Corryn, too.  She's probably taken my disappearance pretty hard. 

            Apryl suddenly missed her younger sister more than she thought possible.  Her gut ached with the loss, both of her mother and her sister.  She even missed her younger brothers, Brian and Allen, who could be such a pest as younger brothers only could be.

            Dad, too, she decided of her stepfather.  She had never really liked Bert, though she could not deny that she did love him.  She had known him since she was six after all.  He just sort of grew on you after a while.

            There were times I liked him, though they weren't many.  She sighed.  I do miss him though.

            And Daddy-Larry, she recalled her real father who had been more of an uncle than a father over the past sixteen and a half years.  I miss him, too.  I miss them all.

            A chilling, disquieting thought settled in her stomach.  What if I never see them again?  What if I never go back?  She realized suddenly that she said 'back' and not 'home' and the thought sent a shiver through her spine--whether because the idea thrilled her or frightened her she wasn't all that certain.

            In one hand Apryl held everyone she had ever known and loved, people who cared for her . . . because I'm me.  I'm Apryl.  In the other hand she held a whole other world with people she had only read about but cared for and for which cared for her in return. . . because, to them, I am Atira.  A girl I do not know, let alone am.  They don't know me.

            She weighed either hand, as one would weight the value of gold to silver on a scale.  The hand that held Earth sank down as the hand that held Middle-earth slowly rose up.

            But the hobbits.  She recalled how warm and friendly they were towards her and knew that it was not because she was Atira but because she was Apryl.  They were kind to me because they liked me.  Apryl, not Atira.

            The weight shifted.

            My . . . h-home.  Earth was her home, whether it was where she was from or not.  Gandalf said she was from Middle-earth but Earth was her home.  She didn't know Middle-earth.  It was a foreign, alien place to her.  (She pointedly neglected to note the fact that while on Earth she had been desperately attracted to the 'novel', The Lord of the Rings which had been centered around Middle-earth.)

            The hand that held Earth sank slightly.

            Morgainne.  Morgainne was Apryl best friend, a combination of her mother and sister, though different altogether.  Morgainne was . . . of Earth, thought Apryl immediately and almost automatically but then there was a twinge of doubt that she did not understand.  Middle-earth, was whispered in her conscious.

            The scale fell even; Earth and Middle-earth were equal, indisputable.

            I have no home, she realized miserably, as she looked from one to the other in a desperate hope that one would fall while the other would rise.  Neither moved.  Not anymore.  Earth was home but it isn't anymore.  But neither is Middle-earth.  It's not my home; it's Atira's.  I have no home.  The thought left her suddenly with a very bleak and empty heart.

            If I have no home than certainly I have no one, for I will always be an outsider.  She looked around miserably at the blackened landscape.

            I feel terribly wretched.  And she did.  Her insides boiled with so many different emotions that it was making her physically ill.  She laid down upon the cold ash and closed her eyes sleepily.           

            Should one tire in a world that isn't a world? she wondered absently as her body soaked up the earth's cold.  One wouldn't think so . . . .

            And as she slept in that world that wasn't a world, her physical form that dwelt upon Middle-earth died.  Her soul no longer had the strength of will to maintain in.  Her spirit was tired; exhausted with grief, confusion, and so many other scrambling emotions that one could wonder at how she remained sane.  She was sane though, even if she herself doubted it.

            She was just very tired and she needed to sleep.

            Rest, however, was the last thing one should entertain in the Otherworld, for she who was known as the Child of Sorrow was not the only one to find themselves trapped in the In-Between.