Dreamcast I: Become A Believer
Chapter 9: The Other Side of The River
Rating: R (for mild language, suggestive themes, some sexuality)
Summary: Rivers is thrown into Middle Earth in a freak car accident.
Somewhere between killing orcs, riding fell beasts, and snogging elves, she
realizes it's more than just a dream and living hell . . . because there is
no going back!
Feedback: nano_starr@metrodesic.com
It was a horrible torment, just to sleep, with the thought of Gandalf and the empty darkness waltzing across her dreams. Breaking out in a cold sweat, she woke from the grip of her cloak. The colorful tinge of dawn was strewn carelessly among the clouds of the early morning.
She stood, some invisible ache plaguing her shapely form. Without thinking, she began to run aimlessly over the rocks. Each step worsened the pain, both the intangible and cramps. Her lungs burned with the lack of air and her broken heart hammered haplessly at her chest, morphing her into a violent blob of hate, self-pity and sadness.
Despite the stitches in her sides, the thought of returning to Gandalf's tomb quaked her steps with a fear she dare not investigate. Eventually, the rocks beneath her became soft mosses as she shoved through branches and trees. Her foot caught a root and she pitched forward.
So, she thought, this is how it ends? The final triumph of Rivers of Hastings.
Through the squirming and the tears, a warm hand was placed upon her shoulder. She thrust her head up, cheeks streaked with blood, dirt, and water. She smiled at the blurry elf, and collapsed.
* * * * *
"She's gone!" Legolas spat. Aragorn, vexed, said heartlessly, "We have no time to find her. Get them up, Legolas."
"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir rounded on the young king in disgust. Aragorn capped his anger by saying through clenched teeth, "By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the Woods of Lothlorien. Come Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up."
As soon as the camp was packed, Legolas and Aragorn led the way over the stony mountains of Moria.
* * * * *
You have to understand people's different values of love.
His eyes were dimmed in a quiet sermon as he preached her words to himself. Even now, he saw her streaked head and her wide smile in a delirious lament, her wounds adding to the visible anguish.
Legolas shook his head. She's not dead.
He found himself looking up the shaft of a well-crafted arrow, the feathers glistening in the dark light of the forest. An elf stared back at him from the other end. "The dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him the dark," said another elf from behind a tree. Legolas gasped.
Strung across his arms was a young girl, cheeks drooling with filth from the trees. Haldir's blonde locks mingled with the streaky ones of the girl. Haldir wore her red cloak, revealing Rivers' green attire strung across her sinewy frame. Legolas lost Aragorn's words to the elf in his surprising jealousy.
Haldir said something back, and Legolas almost whipped out his bow when he saw Haldir comb her hair with his fingers as he readjusted her. She was out cold, the steady rise of her generous chest reassuring him.
"Come, she is waiting."
* * * * *
Rivers sat scrunched in the chair, her reclaimed cloak wrapped around her. The scarlet hid the hot pan that her chamber-keeper had given her. Her lower muscles had begun to contract, warping her with aching pain. The maid, Rílaisseth, had scurried off after a profound bitching from Rivers.
The tight, primitive band of stretchy cloth fitting snuggly around her loins made her feel bloated. The pain made her feel like killing someone, so she just sat in the chair, a bandy ball of latent viciousness.
Her gaze didn't focus right and she was fixed on wriggling the pain away. How long was a woman's period? Three days, wasn't it?
Boromir stuck his head in her room. "Good evening, Rivers of Hastings!" Aragorn walked in, too, and the other followed.
"It's just Rivers," she sizzled, her tone as ragged as a serrated knife. Boromir stepped in cautiously behind his king, eyeing the girl uncertainly. Legolas heard her voice and found a primordial sense of comfort. In her voice was anger, surprising even him. He closed his eyes, searching for the meaning of her senseless hatred. Movement stirred him from his melancholy.
A brown-haired elf had whisked into the room as a loud smack of the collision of flesh encircled the room. Rolling off the wall, Legolas appeared in the doorway.
Boromir was on his knees, hands clapped over his right cheek. Aragorn was passively backing away from Rivers, who was on her feet, restrained only by Rílaisseth. Legolas noted a bulge around the waistline of her dress, but was ripped of his time to inspect it by a fleeing Boromir, with Aragorn in hot pursuit.
The brown man tumbled to his feet and panted, "She's worse than Sauron!"
"Calm down," Aragorn breathed, a nervous sweat drizzling his forehead. "This trip has hit her hard. Women are like that, so just leave her be."
"Was she ok?"
"You stupid elf, did you see her slap me? Of course she's ok! I'm going to bed."
* * * * *
Rivers wasn't at lunch, Sam noted. Pippin had the nerve to ask, "Where's the lass?"
Boromir shot him a nasty look that forced the half-chewed apple down the hobbit's throat. Merry soothed the spasms of coughing by shoving a glass of water into his mouth. Legolas said simply, "She keeps to her chambers."
"Why?"
"Because that is where she wishes to remain for reasons of her own, Meriadoc."
Pippin broke into coughing, and was led away. Sam inquired, "Where is Mister Frodo?"
"Sleeping. His quarters are on the far side of the West Wood, if you'd like to visit."
"Indeed I would," the plump hobbit said, and excused himself from the table, lunch barely eaten.
Meandering the forested corridors or Lothlòrien, Sam came upon the real beauty of the elves that he had admired so much. Marble staircase, sculpted flawlessly, twisted around the white foliage native to this unique realm. He waddled down a thin strip of hallway, examining every aspect of the elvish wonder.
Two doors near the end were adorned with an engraved slab of granite. One specked stone proudly read, 'Frodo Baggins, Shire' and the other, 'Rivers Brind'Amour, Hastings'.
Frodo's door was ajar, the soft sounds of snoring comforting Sam. In his curiosity, he opened Rivers' door. Her back was to the door and a fire danced in the fireplace, rendering her totally oblivious to him. Her bandy locks spilled over onto her red cloak.
A hand clapped his beefy shoulder. Sam rounded on his attacker, but relaxed after seeing it was only Boromir. Aragorn and Legolas dwindled behind him, their faces strangely blank.
"Visiting Mister Frodo?"
"I was only looking!" he murmured, closing her door. The men (an elf) relaxed. "Besides, Mister Frodo's asleep."
"Her room should be renamed," Boromir said cautiously. "Mordor is more appropriate."
Sam glowered at him, feeling uncomfortable under the trio's gaze. Boromir continued, "We have awoken the latent hatred."
It was a horrible torment, just to sleep, with the thought of Gandalf and the empty darkness waltzing across her dreams. Breaking out in a cold sweat, she woke from the grip of her cloak. The colorful tinge of dawn was strewn carelessly among the clouds of the early morning.
She stood, some invisible ache plaguing her shapely form. Without thinking, she began to run aimlessly over the rocks. Each step worsened the pain, both the intangible and cramps. Her lungs burned with the lack of air and her broken heart hammered haplessly at her chest, morphing her into a violent blob of hate, self-pity and sadness.
Despite the stitches in her sides, the thought of returning to Gandalf's tomb quaked her steps with a fear she dare not investigate. Eventually, the rocks beneath her became soft mosses as she shoved through branches and trees. Her foot caught a root and she pitched forward.
So, she thought, this is how it ends? The final triumph of Rivers of Hastings.
Through the squirming and the tears, a warm hand was placed upon her shoulder. She thrust her head up, cheeks streaked with blood, dirt, and water. She smiled at the blurry elf, and collapsed.
* * * * *
"She's gone!" Legolas spat. Aragorn, vexed, said heartlessly, "We have no time to find her. Get them up, Legolas."
"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir rounded on the young king in disgust. Aragorn capped his anger by saying through clenched teeth, "By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the Woods of Lothlorien. Come Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up."
As soon as the camp was packed, Legolas and Aragorn led the way over the stony mountains of Moria.
* * * * *
You have to understand people's different values of love.
His eyes were dimmed in a quiet sermon as he preached her words to himself. Even now, he saw her streaked head and her wide smile in a delirious lament, her wounds adding to the visible anguish.
Legolas shook his head. She's not dead.
He found himself looking up the shaft of a well-crafted arrow, the feathers glistening in the dark light of the forest. An elf stared back at him from the other end. "The dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him the dark," said another elf from behind a tree. Legolas gasped.
Strung across his arms was a young girl, cheeks drooling with filth from the trees. Haldir's blonde locks mingled with the streaky ones of the girl. Haldir wore her red cloak, revealing Rivers' green attire strung across her sinewy frame. Legolas lost Aragorn's words to the elf in his surprising jealousy.
Haldir said something back, and Legolas almost whipped out his bow when he saw Haldir comb her hair with his fingers as he readjusted her. She was out cold, the steady rise of her generous chest reassuring him.
"Come, she is waiting."
* * * * *
Rivers sat scrunched in the chair, her reclaimed cloak wrapped around her. The scarlet hid the hot pan that her chamber-keeper had given her. Her lower muscles had begun to contract, warping her with aching pain. The maid, Rílaisseth, had scurried off after a profound bitching from Rivers.
The tight, primitive band of stretchy cloth fitting snuggly around her loins made her feel bloated. The pain made her feel like killing someone, so she just sat in the chair, a bandy ball of latent viciousness.
Her gaze didn't focus right and she was fixed on wriggling the pain away. How long was a woman's period? Three days, wasn't it?
Boromir stuck his head in her room. "Good evening, Rivers of Hastings!" Aragorn walked in, too, and the other followed.
"It's just Rivers," she sizzled, her tone as ragged as a serrated knife. Boromir stepped in cautiously behind his king, eyeing the girl uncertainly. Legolas heard her voice and found a primordial sense of comfort. In her voice was anger, surprising even him. He closed his eyes, searching for the meaning of her senseless hatred. Movement stirred him from his melancholy.
A brown-haired elf had whisked into the room as a loud smack of the collision of flesh encircled the room. Rolling off the wall, Legolas appeared in the doorway.
Boromir was on his knees, hands clapped over his right cheek. Aragorn was passively backing away from Rivers, who was on her feet, restrained only by Rílaisseth. Legolas noted a bulge around the waistline of her dress, but was ripped of his time to inspect it by a fleeing Boromir, with Aragorn in hot pursuit.
The brown man tumbled to his feet and panted, "She's worse than Sauron!"
"Calm down," Aragorn breathed, a nervous sweat drizzling his forehead. "This trip has hit her hard. Women are like that, so just leave her be."
"Was she ok?"
"You stupid elf, did you see her slap me? Of course she's ok! I'm going to bed."
* * * * *
Rivers wasn't at lunch, Sam noted. Pippin had the nerve to ask, "Where's the lass?"
Boromir shot him a nasty look that forced the half-chewed apple down the hobbit's throat. Merry soothed the spasms of coughing by shoving a glass of water into his mouth. Legolas said simply, "She keeps to her chambers."
"Why?"
"Because that is where she wishes to remain for reasons of her own, Meriadoc."
Pippin broke into coughing, and was led away. Sam inquired, "Where is Mister Frodo?"
"Sleeping. His quarters are on the far side of the West Wood, if you'd like to visit."
"Indeed I would," the plump hobbit said, and excused himself from the table, lunch barely eaten.
Meandering the forested corridors or Lothlòrien, Sam came upon the real beauty of the elves that he had admired so much. Marble staircase, sculpted flawlessly, twisted around the white foliage native to this unique realm. He waddled down a thin strip of hallway, examining every aspect of the elvish wonder.
Two doors near the end were adorned with an engraved slab of granite. One specked stone proudly read, 'Frodo Baggins, Shire' and the other, 'Rivers Brind'Amour, Hastings'.
Frodo's door was ajar, the soft sounds of snoring comforting Sam. In his curiosity, he opened Rivers' door. Her back was to the door and a fire danced in the fireplace, rendering her totally oblivious to him. Her bandy locks spilled over onto her red cloak.
A hand clapped his beefy shoulder. Sam rounded on his attacker, but relaxed after seeing it was only Boromir. Aragorn and Legolas dwindled behind him, their faces strangely blank.
"Visiting Mister Frodo?"
"I was only looking!" he murmured, closing her door. The men (an elf) relaxed. "Besides, Mister Frodo's asleep."
"Her room should be renamed," Boromir said cautiously. "Mordor is more appropriate."
Sam glowered at him, feeling uncomfortable under the trio's gaze. Boromir continued, "We have awoken the latent hatred."