Even If You Were The Last Person On Earth

by Colorain

To the readers: I love you, babes. I'm sure none of you that ever read this to begin with thought I'd keep going, but . . . aha, look, I am. Ninety seven reviews! Dude. I hope to finish this baby, really. And have it go somewhere. And eventually have a plot. And longer chapters. And some version of continuity or good-ness.

My god, thank you for putting up with me. One year after I last updated. .

Disclaimer: I don't own Legolas. I own Susan. And, consequently, I rule the world. Aha.

Sometimes Susan found it to be in her overwhelming favor to be serious. Sometimes she could overlook the rip in her jeans, the stain on her new shirt, the getting-lost-in-an-utterly-new-world-with-a-tall-blonde-freak-of-an-elf.

And sometimes Susan could even find it in herself to shut up and not say anything. This could, at times, be exceedingly difficult.

But there was just something about the impending end of the world that made a girl sit up straight, walk taller, and cut the crap. It was time to get serious.

~*~

"Left."

It had been a hard thing to say, and the look on Legolas' face reflected that. He looked . . . old. If an elf could look old. Susan found herself doubting one could. Doubting, but . . . here she was, and here he was, and she looked scared and he looked old. It wasn't so much his eyes; she was used to them by now. Those eyes were like planets within themselves, having seen more than they could ever truly reveal and looking to the future with no concept of time.

. . . and there she went being poetic, and goddamn if Susan Blackweld was ever poetic. One of her best verses had gone "I like your nose / It inspires me to prose . . .". And that one wasn't even a joke. He might have had that big kind of Roman conk . . .

Susan: serious. Mission? Impossible.

~*~

But the burning question still remained: "Why left? Why not . . . right, or backwards, or . . ." She found she couldn't say "straight ahead". "Straight ahead" was like walking into her doom, and although she realized she couldn't just leave and ignore it, she wasn't quite ready to face that final fact yet.

There was . . . (pause for dramatic effect) a schism in the sky. A crack in the horizon. And she had left her lipstick behind in the hopes she could come back and get it.

Not like it would be okay. If nothing else, the heat from the sun would cook all the good color out of it. She had a strange feeling if she stayed too long here, the sun would steal her color too, but that was just a foolish hunch, and probably because she hadn't eaten since yesterday.

Had it really been only yesterday she'd been caught in that storm? Well, yeah. Stupid question. But yesterday seemed like a million miles away . . . and hell, it really was. A million miles, a pair of clean clothes, an un-holy backpack, a tube of her favorite lipstick, and an age of innocence away.

Susan Blackweld could be poetic. It usually involved her bitching at something.

~*~

Legolas sighed.

. . . she was having trouble concentrating. She was drifting. Bad Norolinde. Stop thinking about food. And noses. And lipstick. For God's sake, she had a world to save.

. . . and since when did she call herself Norolinde? Since never, that's when. Legolas was rubbing off on her. Too bad she couldn't pick up some of his grace. Or tireless-ness. Or the uncanny and unfair way his hair seemed to remain perfectly straight and shiny and smooth and clean while hers was already beginning to cake with dirt and sweat. Then again, he was a blonde. And blondes were generally evil and unnatural to begin with.

Not that that had to do with any jealousy on her part or anything.

Not that blondes hadn't stolen half of her ex-boyfriends.

Or was it that they had?

Gosh, the sun was getting stifling.

And then she saw something that made her shriek in relief.

"Berries!"